Kill 'Em with Cayenne (33 page)

“Do you realize the danger you've put yourself into if Mahoney discovers you took the receipts and gave them to the police? If he killed once, he could do it again.”

I gulped noisily at the mental image. I'd met Tex coming up the stairs at the Turner-Driscoll House. Did he suspect I'd searched his room and found Maybelle's missing alibi in his nightstand?

“What do you expect me to do with these?” McBride asked.

“Sheesh!” I threw up my hands. “I ‘expect' you to make like
CSI
and have them checked for prints. If Maybelle's telling the truth, her fingerprints will be all over them along with those of the person who stole them from her. Or,” I added, making no attempt to hide my sarcasm, “you might find time in your
busy
schedule to requisition the surveillance tapes from the movie theater and gas station.”

“Fair enough, but on one condition.” He carefully tucked the receipts into a plastic protector inside his wallet. “Swear to me that you'll put an end to your nosing around. No telling what trouble you'll land in.”

Before I could swear to anything, the rear door of the restaurant swung open and Barbie's head poked out. “Your ‘minute' could go on record as the longest one in history. Dinner's getting cold.”

“Sorry,” McBride told her. “Be right there.”

But Barbie didn't budge. Instead, she flicked a disdainful glance in my direction. “The woman's so transparent it's ridiculous. I'm surprised, Wyatt, you haven't caught on to her ways. She's using any ploy available to attract your attention.”

I felt my cheeks burn. How dare she accuse me of the very thing she was guilty of? Baby sister's best friend turned TV celeb, Barbie Quinlan had made a play for McBride from the moment she drove into town. She'd used all her ammunition—designer clothes, flawless makeup, flowing blond locks, and drop-dead figure. Give me a break. Did she seriously view little ol' me as competition?

McBride gave me a curt nod. “I'll check into it.”

Barbie shot me a spiteful look as they both disappeared inside. I was left standing alone in a deserted alley worrying if curiosity would kill the cat—the feline in this particular case being none other than me.

*   *   *

Giving up on late-night television, I tossed and turned until my sheets were a tangled mess. As mothers of teens the world over can attest, you never sleep easy until your chicks are safely back in the nest. I pried open one eye and peered at the bedside clock. It was 12:45
A.M.
And my chick still hadn't come home to roost.

I was about to climb out of bed and start pacing when Casey's head popped up. Ears cocked, he made a throaty growl. The slamming of a car door sent him galloping from my bedroom to assume a stance at the kitchen door, where he commenced a spate of barking and vigorous tail wagging.

Between barks, I heard a key twist in a lock downstairs followed by footsteps of the tiptoeing variety. “Linds!” I called. “That you?”

“Shh,” Lindsey said, trying to hush Casey's enthusiam as she opened the door of the apartment. “Yes, Mom, it's me. Go back to sleep.”

Going back to sleep wasn't an option, so I flung aside the covers and flicked on a light. “Do you have any idea what time it is, young lady?”

Lindsey stooped to pet Casey, who wriggled with delight. “Sorry. I was hanging out with Taylor and the gang and I lost track of time. I tried to be quiet coming in.”

I just bet you did.
I leaned against the doorjamb, arms crossed over my sleep shirt, my bare foot tapping the hardwood floor. Did my daughter think I was born yesterday? Did she think I'd never tried to sneak in after curfew without disturbing my parents? Did she really think I wasn't on to her tricks? Jeez Louise, I could give the girl pointers. But that could wait until she turned forty.

“Doc's pulled pork is going to be fabulous,” Lindsey said, stifling a theatrical yawn. “I had no idea all the work involved when I volunteered. I'd better get to bed. Busy day tomorrow.”

“Make that today,” I corrected, stopping her in her tracks as she headed toward her room. “Once the festival's over, no more excuses for coming home late. Understood?”

“Fine.” Lindsey heaved a put-upon sigh that would have made Meryl Streep weep with envy.

“And Lindsey, next week I want you to help Meemaw sort through her tea sets. Everything needs to be hand washed and either returned to her cupboard or boxed up and delivered to Yesteryear Antiques.”

Lindsey's pretty blue-gray eyes widened in alarm. “Mo-om…,” she wailed. “Do you know how long that will take? Meemaw has a china cabinet filled with cups, saucers, and teapots. It'll take forever.”

Question asked and answered
, I thought with a nod. “Forever is just what it felt like waiting for you to come home safe and sound—and late.”

Lindsey trudged off with Casey trotting behind. I switched off the light and crawled back into bed. I drifted off to sleep blissfully unaware of what the day held in store.

 

C
HAPTER
35

“I
'M OFF.
W
ISH
us luck.” Lindsey flew out the door, bagel in hand, a blur of blond ponytail and bright-orange T-shirt.

“Good luck.” I called, but doubt that in her haste she heard me.

Casey watched her departure with censure in his doggie-brown eyes. I'd become adept at reading the expressions on the cute furry face. Lindsey had left without giving him a pat on the head or a scratch behind the ears, and he wasn't pleased at the oversight. The pup looked even more unhappy, if that was possible, when I banished him behind the baby gate fastened across the foot of the stairs.

Customers began filtering in the instant I turned the sign on my front door from
CLOSED
to
OPEN
. The tang of woodsmoke drifted in along with the tantalizing aroma of roasting meat. Mouthwaterin' and finger-lickin' good, as Reba Mae would say.

Melly, prim and proper in a starched shirtwaist and her signature pearls, hurried in and took her place beside me at the counter. “Sorry I'm late, dear, but I ran into Gerilee Barker at the pancake breakfast. You know how Gerilee loves to talk.”

The mention of pancakes served up by members of the Brandywine Creek Fire Department at their annual fund-raiser made my stomach rumble. I took another swig of coffee and hoped that would appease the hunger gods. If business was as brisk as I hoped, I might not get a break until dinnertime.

“The American Legion is sponsoring a yard sale.” Melly donned an apron, careful not to muss her perfectly coiffed hair. “Gerilee said Pinky Alexander finally sold the solar-powered birdbath she received from her daughter-in-law last Christmas.”

“I'm happy for her,” I replied. “She tried getting rid of it at the Humane Society's silent auction, but no such luck. It was ugly as sin.”

“I remember.” Melly wagged her head. “Not a single bid. She practically begged folks to take it off her hands.”

A barrel-chested man wearing bib overalls entered and made a beeline in our direction. “Some darn crook made off with my cumin. I need more for my sauce.”

“Let me show you,” Melly said as she led him away. “Would you like whole or ground? My ex-daughter-in-law carries both.”

A tall, gangly youth, a worried expression on his pimply face, approached next. “My uncle sent me here for coriander. Said don't come back without it. I don't even know what the heck it is.”

“Coriander is one of the few plants that can lay claim to being both an herb and a spice.” I plucked a jar from a shelf and handed it to him. The boy's tension seemed to ease. “Did you know coriander and cilantro are related?” I asked as I made change from the five-dollar bill he'd given me.

“No, ma'am,” he admitted. “I'm new to cooking. My mom sent me here from Macon to spend the summer with my aunt and uncle. Said the fresh air and outdoors would keep me away from computer games while she was at work.”

“Well, if you're into trivia, cilantro, which is used extensively in Mexican cooking, is the leaf of the coriander plant. The seeds, such as your uncle requested, add flavor to foods that cook for a longer period of time.”

“Thanks,” he said, the jar clutched to his bony chest. “I'll use that info to impress my uncle.”

I'd no sooner rearranged a window display when Dottie Hemmings sailed in. She beamed me a smile. “I just popped in to say hello.”

“Hello, Dottie.” Dottie was generous with hellos. Not so much with actual purchases. She adhered to the policy that spices retain their potency for a lifetime. I tried to convince her otherwise, but so far my advice fell on deaf ears.

“Looks like business is booming.” She glanced around at the customers who were filling little wicker baskets with a variety of spices. “My husband the mayor says this is the biggest crowd Brandywine Creek has ever seen. Pity it took poor Becca dying to bring 'em to our town,” she said mournfully, but her expression quickly brightened. “Nothing's so bad it's not good for something, I always say.”

I removed extra bags from beneath the counter and placed the stack next to the cash register where they'd be handy. “Maybe your husband could arrange for a murder every year,” I said tongue-in-cheek. “That way every festival would be assured success.”

Dottie's penciled brows crept high on her forehead. Her round face mirrored shock. “Piper…!”

“I'm joking, Dottie,” I said, never thinking for a second she'd would take me literally.

“Of course. I knew you were only pulling my leg.” She patted her sprayed and teased helmet of Clairol's natural blond. “Folks are excited Barbie Quinlan is in town filming the goings-on. Maybe it's just me, but it seems everyone took pains to look extra nice in case they wind up in front of the camera. No one wants to look frumpy with the whole world watching.”

I seriously doubted the “whole world” would be tuned into Barbie-Q-Perfect's show but refrained from saying so. Let Dottie have her illusions.

“Dorinda, over at the police department,” Dottie continued, “said the EMS set up a booth to treat medical emergencies. My husband the mayor says they're just trying to look good so the city council will approve funds for new equipment.”

“That seems a worthwhile cause,” I said absently as I rang up a sale.

“Dorinda said the EMS already treated a couple entrants for burns,” Dottie prattled on, refusing to take the hint when customers demanded my attention. “If the weather prediction is right about today, they might see a bunch of heatstrokes. Wish I could visit longer, but I want to stop by the Chamber and see if I can help out. Maybelle, bless her heart, is worn to a frazzle worrying about the festival and if she's going to be arrested any minute. Toodle-loo.” With a waved of her plump fingers, she marched out the door.

Melly joined me behind the counter. “I swear that woman never tires of spreading doom and gloom. For heaven sakes, would it kill her to refer to her husband the mayor by his Christian name? Everyone knows it's Harvey.”

I looked at my former mother-in-law in amusement. “Getting a little testy, are we?”

“If you want my honest opinion, her husband the mayor also happens to be a pompous windbag.”

“No argument there.” I glanced at the regulator clock on the wall, surprised to see it was nearly two o'clock. “I think we deserve some lunch.”

While Melly minded the shop, I ran across the street. Scores of people in shorts, T-shirts, and flip-flops jammed the square. If noise alone was any indicator, the Brandywine Creek Barbecue Festival was a resounding success. The steel guitars of a country-western band performing down the block were nearly drowned out by the laughter and chatter. Heat from dozens of cookers added to the day's already-blistering temperature. I felt a bead of sweat trickle between my shoulder blades as I made my way down a long row of vendors. Ribs, brisket, and hash. Everything looked and smelled delicious. Guided by the sweet and savory aroma of barbecue sauce, I finally settled on a booth where trophies from previous competitions were prominently displayed. I stood in line behind a couple debating the merits of pulled pork versus baby back ribs. When they finally moved on, I purchased a sample platter for Melly and myself. As I started back, I narrowly avoided colliding with a small boy intent on licking a cone that dripped homemade peach ice cream.

Upon my return to the relative peace and quiet of Spice It Up!, I poured Melly sweet tea and popped the tab on a Diet Coke for myself. We feasted like royalty on pulled pork, barbecue chicken, hash, baked beans, and coleslaw.

“Glad to see you're wearing sensible footwear,” Melly commented, eyeing my running shoes. “Are you going to the dance tonight?”

“Doug—Dr. Winters—invited me.” I tried the hash but found it too bland for my taste. I'd like it better with more black pepper, more thyme, maybe a dash of chili powder. “What about you, Melly? Are you going to the dance?”

“Believe it or not, I cut a fine figure in my day. Alas,” she sighed, “that day has come and gone. I'm planning to spend the evening watching reruns on TV.”

“Reruns such as
Vanished
?”

“As you know, it's one of my favorite programs,” she said primly. “Do you think Becca saw the episode about the Witness Protection Program? She would have enjoyed it.”

I sampled the pulled pork. It had been basted with a tangy yellow mustard-based barbecue sauce popular in South Carolina. Pulled pork, as many foodies know, is the South's contribution to American cuisine. Who was I to disagree?

“That might have been the last one she saw, since she was killed soon after,” I said, licking sauce from my fingers.

“Oh, dear.…” Melly looked stricken at the thought. “How horrible.”