Kill 'Em with Cayenne (12 page)

I picked up a clutch—also courtesy of Reba Mae—and looped my arm through his. “Let's walk. It isn't far.”

“Fine by me.” Doug took my hand from the crook of his arm and held it like a teenager on a date.

I recalled how self-conscious I'd been the first couple of times we were seen together in public. Now I no longer worried what others might think, only that Doug's hand in mine felt right. And made me all warm and melty inside.

“I know this is a last-minute invite, but I couldn't face another beef brisket or pork butt.”

“How are preparations going?”

“Good. I'm planning to order T-shirts for the team, but wanted to get your daughter's opinion first.”

“Smart move. You don't want to infringe on a teenage girl's sense of fashion. When Lindsey gets home tomorrow, I'll tell her you need advice.”

We paused to admire items in the window of Yesteryear Antiques. “Hope the murder of Becca Dapkins won't put too much of a damper on the festivities.”

“Maybelle's been slower than usual getting things organized this year, but she always manages to pull it off.”

“Any word when Becca Dapkins will be buried?” he asked as we resumed our leisurely stroll.

“Monday.”

“Monday…?” he repeated. “Isn't that kind of fast?”

I shrugged. “No reason to drag things out, I guess. Gerilee Barker told me Ned Feeney, who works at the Eternal Rest, told her the medical examiner released the body yesterday. It's already been cremated. According to Gerilee's hotline, Becca's son and daughter don't want to take any more time off work than necessary. They plan to fly in tomorrow and return home immediately after the reception.”

“That seems rather cold and heartless,” Doug commented.

“Apparently, Becca hasn't been on the best of terms with her children. With their approval, Gerilee arranged for a simple service for their mother with a reception afterward at the VFW.”

Doug pushed open the door of Antonio's, then stood aside for me to enter. A cacophony of clattering dishes, cutlery, and conversation greeted us. I stood for a moment, taking in the transformation that had taken place since the last time I'd visited the restaurant.

Where the former owner had favored the minimalist approach, with lots of black and white, Tony and his wife, Gina, had created a Tuscan-style ambiance. The walls had been faux-painted a warm orangey gold to mimic terra-cotta. Candles glowed on tables covered with cream-colored cloths. The voice of a tenor singing Italian love songs streamed through discreetly mounted speakers.

Gina Deltorro stood at a hostess stand. Upon seeing us, she cast an anxious glance over her shoulder. “Welcome to Antonio's,” she said, giving us a nervous smile. “Right this way, please.”

We followed her lush figure to a corner table for two at the rear. Doug frowned at the empty tables we passed. “What about one not quite so close to the kitchen?”

“Sorry, sir. The rest are … reserved.” Gina kept her eyes averted as she handed us menus.

“This is fine, Doug. Really,” I told him.

“Guess I only have myself to blame for waiting till the last minute.”

“Don't give it another thought. The food will taste the same whether we're sitting here or up front.”

“Your server will be over shortly.” Gina left us—“escaped” would a more apt description—to contemplate our dinner choices.

“I'm grateful you didn't create a scene,” I said. “My ex, on the other hand, would've screamed bloody murder, then stormed out, leaving me to trail behind.”

As if on cue, the restaurant door swung wide and in walked CJ and Miss Amber Leigh Ames, his fiancée and the light of his life. I privately refer to the woman as Miss Peach Pit. Amber is a former Brandywine County's Miss Peach Blossom and later went on to become first runner-up in the Miss Georgia beauty pageant. Flowing brunette locks, mile-long legs, and more curves than Maui's road to Hana, she's the envy of every teenage girl for miles around—my daughter included. If I had to find a flaw—and I felt it my obligation to do so, being Amber was the other woman—she had big teeth. Big, white teeth.

Gina showed the lovebirds to a cozy table for two in a alcove half-hidden behind a ficus. Amber spotted us as she slid into her seat and gave a little finger wave.

I finger-waved back. CJ glanced our way and acknowledged Doug and me with a nod.

Gina hovered solicitously at their table. A waitress in black pants and white dress shirt instantly appeared, order pad in hand. A busboy filled their water glasses. I pretended I wasn't miffed by their preferential treatment.

“I'm in the mood for a glass of white wine,” I said, draping a caramel-toned napkin across my lap.

“Excellent idea,” Doug agreed. “Pinot grigio?”

I nodded, then stifled a groan when the waitress half-turned and I saw her profile. Marcy Magruder. I'd recognize her baby bump anywhere.

Doug frowned at seeing my expression. “Anythng wrong?”

“Heartburn,” I murmured.

Marcy wasn't a member of my fan club any more than Tony Deltorro—and for much the same reason. I'd once pegged Danny Boyd, the father of her future children, as a possible murder suspect. She hasn't spoken to me since. Hey, I'm a newbie when it comes to solving crimes. I wished Marcy would cut me some slack.

Danny, on the other hand, possessed a more forgiving nature. He's friendly and polite whenever I order pizza from the joint he runs. Come to think of it, though, these days I'm getting fewer pepperonis, less sauce. And once he “forgot” the mushrooms.

Marcy left CJ's table and went directly to a party of four seated nearby. I watched her nod and smile, then scurry toward the bar with CJ and Miss Home Wrecker's drink order.

A young man with acne and a starter mustache sailed out of the kitchen bearing a tray with salads and a bread basket. Doug raised his hand to get the young man's attention, but he must've had blinders on, as he hustled past.

I opened my mouth to protest, but more patrons began arriving. I glanced over, hoping to recognize some friendly faces, but no such luck. The newcomers were none other than Barbara Quinlan and Wyatt McBride. “Tonight just keeps getting better and better,” I muttered.

Doug leaned forward, his voice low. “Would you rather we go somewhere else? We could go to my place and I'll rustle up some scrambled eggs.”

“I'm no quitter.” Doug was a sweetheart to suggest leaving, but I refused to let an audience watch me turn tail. I raised the menu and began studying the list of entrées. The menu also acted as a shield of sorts. I wasn't in any frame of mind to make nice with McBride and Barbie-Q-Perfect.

“They make a striking couple,” Doug observed, not sharing my reticence.

“I suppose,” I grudgingly admitted, peering at them over the rim of my menu. Barbie looked like a watercolor in pastel shades of pink and rose. In contrast, McBride wore all black, exuding an aura of power and danger. I resolutely turned back to my date. I didn't need “danger” in my life.

Finally, conceding we weren't about to leave anytime soon, an unsmiling Marcy came to our table, took our drink order, then left to get our wine.

“Do you know the blonde's name?” Doug asked. “She looks familiar.”

I snapped my menu shut. “Barbara Bunker Quinlan. She's in town to film the barbecue festival for the Cooking Network. Her show's called
Some Like It Hot
.”

“Ahh!” Doug exclaimed. “So that's Barbie Q. I've seen some of the promos for her show. She's even more impressive in person.”

Impressive?
Couldn't argue with the guy. No man with a drop of testosterone would dispute the fact that Barbie
was
a knockout. Pity she didn't have the same effect on women.

Marcy returned with our wine. She set mine down with enough force to send its contents sloshing over the rim.

Doug and I exchanged glances. I mopped up the spill with a cocktail napkin. “Are there any specials this evening?” Doug asked.

“We have two.” Marcy consulted a notepad. “The first is osso buco. Tender veal shanks simmered with root vegetables in their own juices and white wine. It's served over polenta. The second is eggplant parmigiana. Layers of succulent eggplant and cheese baked in a rich tomato sauce.” She cracked her first smile of the evening. “Unfortunately, we're out of both.”

We stared at her, dumbfounded. Doug was the first to recover from the girl's deliberate rudeness. “What is available?” Doug asked with commendable calm.

Marcy tucked her notepad into her pocket. “I'll have to check with the chef.” She turned on her heel and stalked off.

While we waited for her to return, Marcy's counterpart delivered plates of osso buco and eggplant parmigiana to CJ and Amber. Her sympathy as phony as a three-dollar bill, Amber made a moue when she saw Doug and I had only our wineglasses for company.

Just then, a loud crash came from the direction of the kitchen. All heads turned to see the hapless busboy, his face scarlet, scramble to pick up shards of glass. All heads, that is, except those of Barbie and McBride. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched Barbie rise to her feet. McBride tried to stop her, but she shook off his hand. With movements fluid and catlike, she sauntered toward the table where CJ was seated. Wondering what would happen next, I took a sip of wine.

I didn't have to wonder for long.

CJ and Barbie locked eyes with each other while his osso buco turned cool. “It's been a long time, CJ.” Barbie spoke in a voice that carried.

CJ, a befuddled expression on his face, put down his knife and fork. “Sorry,” he said. “Have we met?”

“Most people know me better as Barbie Q, but I was Barbara Bunker back in high school.”

“Y-you're…?”

“So, you do remember me.” She laughed, but her laughter had a hollow ring.

Amber, not used to being ignored, interrupted the reunion. “CJ, shame on you,” she scolded. “Aren't you going to introduce me to your old school chum?”

CJ's face flushed. “Of course, sweetums. Where are my manners?” Formalities concluded, he returned his attention to Barbie. “You've changed a lot since high school, Barbara. I'm afraid I didn't recognize you.”

I eavesdropped shamelessly. I'd repent later.

“I prefer to be called Barbie,” she said, correcting him. “Yes, I have changed. I'm no longer the trailer trash you and your buddies made fun of. Played cruel pranks on. You, on the other hand, don't seem to have changed a bit. Appearances were always important to you, weren't they? You were always on the prowl for something—or someone—to make you look more important than the shit you really are.”

“Pooh Bear…!” Amber bristled. “Are you goin' to let her speak to you that way? Do somethin'!”

CJ patted Amber's arm reassuringly. “Don't take anythin' she says seriously, sweetums. Obviously, the woman's still nursin' hard feelin's for imagined wrongs datin' back years ago.”

“Imagined?” Barbie's voice grew strident.

I drank more of my wine but didn't really taste it. Even without looking at Doug, I sensed that he, along with others, was observing the scenario as avidly as I was.

McBride tossed aside his napkin and approached CJ's table. Sliding his arm around Barbie's waist, he whispered something in her ear, which I couldn't catch. Barbie seemed to mull it over, then nodded. Without so much as a backward glance, she and McBride turned and left the restaurant.

CJ scowled after them, his complexion an unhealthy shade. Glancing around, he discovered himself the recipient of unwanted attention. “Once trailer trash, always trailer trash, I say,” he declared in a loud voice to the room at large. “Same goes for McBride. Good riddance to the two of 'em.”

The show over, the patrons went back to their meals. I saw CJ down his Wild Turkey in one gulp and motion for another.

Marcy returned to our table wearing a sour expression. “Chef says to inform you that you have a choice of spaghetti … or spaghetti.”

I stood and signaled for my date to do likewise. “C'mon, Doug, let's go. I have a sudden craving for scrambled eggs.”

 

C
HAPTER
14

I
TAPPED TWICE
on Reba Mae's back door, then let myself in. I found Reba Mae standing at the stove, stirring a large pot. “Mmm. Something smells good.”

“I'm makin' Meemaw's Hungarian goulash.” She sampled some with a spoon, made a face, and added a pinch of salt.

I placed the earrings and the clutch I'd borrowed for my date last night on the table. When it comes to bling, Reba Mae's my go-to girl. “What's the occasion?”

“I invited Wally for supper,” she said. “Travelin' all around the country as much as he does, I thought the man might enjoy a home-cooked meal.”

“Well then, he's in for a treat. Your grandmother's goulash is the best.” I chose to think it was because Reba Mae used the sweet Hungarian-style paprika I sold at Spice It Up!. The spice imparted a deep, rich color and an extra dash of flavor. The yum factor, as I liked to call it. Reba Mae had a couple other tricks up her sleeve when it came to her favorite recipe. Secrets I couldn't persuade her to part with. Maybelle Humphries wasn't the only cook in town who didn't like to share.

Using the back of her hand, Reba Mae shoved her spiky black bangs aside. “Wanna join us? I made plenty.”

“You know what they say about two's company, three's a crowd.”

“I just asked to be polite. I was hopin' you'd refuse.”

“Well, at least you get an A-plus for honesty,” I said. “It's another hot one today. Any Diet Coke?”

“Does a cat have whiskers? While you're at it, I just made a pitcher of sweet tea.” She pointed toward the fridge with her spoon. “Pour me some, will you?”