Kill 'Em with Cayenne (10 page)

Leaning forward, Reba Mae waggled her fork at me. “‘Interestin” covers a boatload of meanin's, sugar.”

“A quick peek was all I had in mind. We might spot something others missed. Be a fresh set of eyes. Just think, Reba Mae. What if the police overlooked a tiny detail that could lead them to Becca's killer?” I went for the jugular. The kill shot. “You know how unobservant men can be,” I added.

“Ain't that the truth.” Reba Mae nodded knowingly. “Once Butch was so busy tellin' me about a fifteen-pound crappie he caught, he failed to notice I'd gone from blond to brunette while he was reelin' it in.”

“Butch was a good guy.” I added a dollop of sour cream to my chimi, spread it around. “He adored you.”

Reba Mae returned her attention to her food. “Butch was never a smooth talker. I think I started to fall in love with the big lug when he told me I was prettier than a speckled trout.”

“Aww…”

“Times I feel myself wishin' I had a man in my life,” she confessed. “I miss the little things. Stuff like gettin' all dolled up, then catchin' that certain gleam in your man's eye and knowin' how—and where—the evenin's goin' to end. I miss havin' someone ask about my day. Someone who after listenin' to me whine gives me a hug and tells me everythin's gonna work out.”

A lump the size of a baseball seemed lodged in my throat at hearing this. Reba Mae wasn't one to host a pity party or go squishy sentimental. She was the no-nonsense practical sort who faced problems head-on. But she was lonelier than I imagined. Not knowing what to say, I simply reached over and squeezed her hand.

Reba Mae blinked several times, then shrugged off her somber mood. “I'm thinkin' of givin' Internet datin' a whirl. Brandywine Creek's not exactly overrun with eligible bachelors.”

I finished my chimi and pushed my plate aside. “I hear Buzz Oliver is available,” I teased. “On the plus side, with Buzz around you'd never be bothered with termites.”

“Mark my words, Maybelle will snap him up in a heartbeat. She's probably already whippin' up a Hummingbird Cake to lure him back.”

“True.”

“While we're on the subject of eligible gentlemen, you, hon, have already staked a claim on the two hottest guys in the Peach State. Doug Winters is cute as a bug's ear. And I've seen you and McBride together. With a little effort on your part, you could fan those sparks into a ragin' forest fire.”

“McBride's out of my league.” I crumpled up my napkin, tossed it aside, and drained the last of my margarita. “He's reported to have escorted starlets to premieres in South Beach, and now Ms. Bombshell has her sights set on him. Barbie Q went as far as insinuating McBride's only interest in me is to even a score with CJ dating back to when they were boys.”

“Blondes are the root of all evil,” Reba Mae theorized. “I'd bet good money Jezebel was a blonde.”

“Amen, sista!” I clinked my empty margarita glass against hers.

Reba Mae lounged back in the booth and eyed me speculatively. “You still dead set on checkin' out Becca's digs? 'Cause if so, I figured out a way to do it without gettin' busted for breakin' and enterin'.”

I watched in amazement as Reba Mae pulled out her cell phone and punched in a number. Minutes later, she'd persuaded Gerilee Barker, who lived three doors down from Becca, to leave Becca's spare key under the mat for us. In exchange, Reba Mae promised we'd take over the tending of Becca's extensive collection of African violets.

“Easy peasy.” Reba Mae grinned.

We were standing at the counter waiting to pay our checks when Wally Porter came through the front door. His dress slacks bore a crease sharp enough to slice cheese, and his striped oxford cloth shirt was starched stiff as a sheet of plywood. The guy looked out of place in a town where jeans and shorts were the uniform du jour.

Wally beamed a smile at us. “If I'd known I'd be treated to the sight of two of the town's lovelies, I would have timed my arrival to coincide with yours. Maybe you'd have taken pity on a lonely bachelor in a strange town and invited me to join you. Any chance I can buy you a drink? I heard the margaritas are excellent.”

Reba Mae cast me a hopeful glance. “Well…”

“Sorry, but we're on our way to an errand,” I explained. It occurred to me Reba Mae and Wally hadn't met, so I hastily performed the introductions.

Reba Mae handed her credit card to Nacho, who patiently waited for us to finish our conversation. “We offered to water the plants of a recently deceased friend,” she confided. “And we're gonna take a look around while we're at it. See if the police missed anythin'.”

“Is this ‘deceased friend' the woman who was murdered in the town square?” Wally asked.

“Yes, I'm afraid so.” I handed some bills to Nacho and told him to keep the change.

“I'm sorry for your loss,” Wally said, his expression grave.

“Can we have a rain check on the drink offer?” Reba Mae gave him an arch smile.

I elbowed her in the rib cage. What was she thinking? She'd just met the man.

Wally turned his charm on Reba Mae, his gaze lingering a fraction too long on the endowments Mother Nature had generously bestowed. “Better yet, perhaps I can persuade you to dine with me one evening.”

“No coaxin' necessary.” Reba Mae dug a business card out of her purse, then, using the pen she'd signed her credit card with, scribbled her cell phone number on the back. “Here,” she said, handing it to Wally. “Call me.”

*   *   *

Reba Mae pouted all the way to Becca's. “It's been a long time since a nice-lookin' man invited me for a drink. I don't see why we couldn't have stayed and had another margarita.”

“Because, to paraphrase a popular song, tequila makes your clothes fall off. That's why. Besides, those plants of Becca's need watering.”

By this time we'd reached Becca's tidy little bungalow. A gable roof, supported by twin columns, covered a charming little front porch. Its entrance was flanked on either side by trailing Boston ferns. Pink petunias filled window boxes. The house itself, however, was showing signs of wear, as evidenced by the peeling paint and crumbling concrete steps.

I picked up several newspapers lying scattered on the porch. “I'd better notify
The Statesman
and tell them to cancel her subscription.”

Reba Mae lifted the flap of a mailbox mounted near the door and drew out a handful of mail. “Better remind the post office, too.”

We found the key under the mat as promised and let ourselves in. The door opened directly into what was Becca's living room. We stood for a moment in silence, getting the lay of the land so to speak.

“If I'm not mistaken,” I said, “this is one of those Sears and Roebuck catalog homes from the nineteen twenties. There was an article about them in the paper a while back.”

“No kiddin'? Folks ordered homes from a catalog?”

“They were sold as a kit. Lumber, shingles, floors, ceilings, siding, hardware, and paint. The whole shebang. Only extras were cement, brick, and plaster.”

Becca's furniture consisted mostly of outdated pieces that to my unpracticed eye appeared more flea market than antique. A chintz-slipcovered sofa held a half-dozen throw pillows embroidered with Bible verses. A pink-and-blue crocheted afghan more suitable for a nursery than a living room was flung over its back. The décor consisted of blue wall-to-wall carpet, threadbare in spots, a large flat-screen television, and lots of lace doilies.

And dozens of African violets.

Darkness was rapidly settling in, swaddling the interior in shadow. “This place creeps me out,” Reba Mae complained, edging closer. “Think Becca's ghost will haunt her grannie's house?”

“Don't be such a fraidy cat. We won't be long.”

Reba Mae gestured toward a coffee table and tea cart. “Becca might not be thrivin', but her houseplants sure are.”

“I doubt they'll fare as well under my care. My plants have to survive long periods of drought followed by flash floods,” I said, and then inspiration struck. “If her kids don't want them, maybe we can give them away. You know, free to good homes. Like puppies or kittens.”

“Whatever.” Frowning, Reba Mae placed her hands on her hips and looked around. “Where do we start?”

“Why don't you take a peek into the bedrooms? See if you can spot anything out of the ordinary. I'll check the dining room.”

After flicking on a table lamp, Reba Mae reluctantly left to do as I asked. Meanwhile, I entered the adjoining dining room. I made quick work of searching through the drawers of a mahogany buffet but didn't find anything more interesting than musty yellow linen tablecloths.

I shoved a swinging door aside and entered the kitchen. Black and white speckled linoleum on the floor, red Formica countertops, and aging appliances. Another flat-screen television, this one smaller, sat on the counter next to a toaster oven. The room itself was immaculate. I sniffed the air, then sniffed again. What did I smell?

Chlorine?

“Becca was a TV addict.”

I jumped, startled by Reba Mae's voice directly behind me. “Did you find anything of interest in Becca's room?” I asked once I'd recovered from my fright.

“Jewelry, mostly costume stuff, and a bunch of perfume bottles. Only thing of value is a television set that looks fairly new.” She wrinkled her nose in distaste. “What's with the bleach smell? Becca's whites need an extra boost?”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” I said absently as I started opening and closing cupboards. I pulled out a drawer next to the cookstove and stared at the contents in surprise. “Reba Mae, what do you make of this?”

Reba Mae peered over my shoulder. “Well, I'll be darned. Flavor injectors. Every shape and size they make 'em. No wonder Becca was so all-fired sure of winnin' herself a trophy. She planned to cheat.”

“According to the festival rules, contestants are disqualified for injecting marinade or tenderizer into their meat.”

“Only if they're caught.”

Flavor injectors and meat went hand in hand. This in mind, I walked over to the refrigerator and opened the freezer. “Well, well, well,” I said. “Look what I found.”

There, stacked like cordwood, were five frozen beef briskets. Except for the briskets, a quart of strawberry ice cream, and a bag of frozen peas, the freezer was empty.

“Findin' a brisket in a freezer right before a barbecue festival isn't kin to discoverin' a stash of Confederate gold buried in a rose garden,” Reba Mae pointed out. “I bet Meat on Main and Piggly Wiggly can't keep up with orders.”

“Don't you think it strange Becca's murder weapon might be something she kept in her very own freezer?”

“Coincidence.” Reba Mae drifted over to examine a deep-purple African violet with double blossoms on the kitchen table. “I'm thinkin' we should give Becca's plants a nice drink of water before we go.”

I continued to rummage through drawers and cupboards. “I've heard African violets are fussy. Too much water and they contract weird diseases with names you can't pronounce.”

“My mama used to have a way with 'em. She always felt the soil before waterin'.” Reba Mae poked her finger into the pot, then came away with a small, shiny object. “Look what I found. What do you s'pose it is? A shell of some sort?”

I took it from her hand and placed it in my palm. “Neither,” I murmured, nudging it gently. “It's a broken fingernail. A tip torn from a manicure-polished Pucker Up Pink.”

“Becca would never venture out in public unless her nails were perfect.”

“No,” I echoed. “Becca was much too vain. Unless…”

Closing my eyes, I tried to imagine Becca as I'd last seen her, sprawled on her side, one arm outstretched as if to break her fall. I willed myself to visualize that arm.

And that hand.

McBride always preached that memory was a funny thing. “Funny” isn't exactly the term I'd use. In this instance, it was downright weird. Becca Dapkins's perennially perfect manicure had been less than perfect. The nail on her middle finger had been broken down to the quick.

“I think Becca was killed right here—in her own kitchen,” I told a wide-eyed Reba Mae. “Time to call McBride.”

 

C
HAPTER
12

“L
ET ME SEE
if I got this straight.” McBride's brows drew together in irritation. “You insisted I drop everything and hurry over—all because you found a broken fingernail?”

I had to admit at hearing it come from McBride's mouth my theory sounded pretty lame. Judging from the fact he was in civvies rather than in uniform, I assumed I'd interrupted his plans for the evening. He didn't look any too pleased at the prospect.

“Becca would never go out in public with a broken fingernail,” Reba Mae, bless her heart, rushed to my defense. “It wasn't in the woman's DNA.”

I flung my hand out in an expansive gesture. “See for yourself, McBride. The house is spotless. Not a single thing out of place.”

“Not even a single water spot on a leaf of an African violet,” Reba Mae added helpfully.

“If anything, the place is almost too neat. It doesn't even look lived-in.”

He shook his head, obviously not following my logic. “Exactly what does that prove?”

“Do I have to spell it out for you?” I asked in exasperation. “It
proves
that Becca was meticulous. Would a woman that fussy take off to visit her estranged boyfriend with a broken fingernail? No, I don't think so.”

Reba Mae nodded vigorous agreement. “She'd at least try to glue it back on until she could get to her nail tech.”

McBride scratched his head. “Women do those sorts of things?”