Kill 'Em with Cayenne (15 page)

I shifted into reverse, backed out of the parking stall, and pulled out of the lot. “I'd like to take another look around Becca's house. See if we missed anything the first time.”

“Fine by me.” Reba Mae pulled down the visor and inspected her image in the small mirror. “Her son, Kenny, gave me a key. Told me he and his sister would appreciate havin' someone keep on eye on the place.”

I looked at her suspiciously. “When did that conversation take place?”

“While you were visitin' the little girls' room,” she said smugly. Satisfied with her appearance, she flipped the visor back up. “I walked over and introduced myself. Told 'em I'd be happy to help any way I could.”

“So just like that”—I snapped my fingers—“they gave you a key?”

“More or less,” she said. “Becca's kids plan to call a pro to appraise the house for valuables. Kenny gave me a spare house key after makin' me promise not to let the appraiser out of my sight. He and his sister don't want the guy runnin' off with the family treasures.”

I made a right at the fork in the road and headed toward town. “From what I could tell, Becca's things didn't seem worth much, but I'm no expert.”

“Dividin' up the silver is a big to-do in the South. I'm surprised the kids aren't fightin' over butter knives and seafood forks.”

“I got the impression they're the take-the-money-and-run type,” I told her. “I'm going to stop by the Chamber for a minute to check on Maybelle. Care to join me?”

“Wish I could, honeybun, but I got a perm waitin' on me.”

After agreeing to meet her later, I dropped Reba Mae off at the Klassy Kut and drove to the Chamber of Commerce. Maybelle looked up from her desk behind the counter as I entered. The Chamber could use some sprucing up. A fresh coat of paint over the institutional beige would be a good start. A couple plastic chairs of the stackable variety hugged one wall. The other wall featured blowup photos of Brandywine Creek's “points of interest”—the courthouse, the opera house, the town square.

“Hey, Maybelle,” I said cheerily. “Seeing how you didn't stay for lunch, I brought you a plate. Just nuke it in the microwave for a minute or two.”

“That's awfully sweet of you, Piper. Maybe later.” She took the plate from me and made room for it in a dorm-size fridge next to a file cabinet. “I can't eat a bite these days. Even the thought of food makes me nauseous. I've been a bundle of nerves since Becca … died.”

“Becca had a real nice turnout. She would've been pleased.”

Maybelle tucked a stray salt-and-pepper wisp behind her ear. “Becca always did like being the center of attention.”

“Her children didn't seem very distraught at her passing.”
Passing.
There it was again, the euphemism of the day. Was there a Euphemism-of-the-Day calendar? If not, maybe there should be. Could be a bestseller during the holidays. Something along the lines of Page-a-Day Sudoku, or 365 Days of Beer.

Maybelle rested her hands on the counter and folded them primly. “Don't think for a minute I don't know what people are thinking. They're saying I had it in for Becca. That I was angry at her for stealing Buzz. Maybe even angry enough to kill her.”

“That's just talk, Maybelle. No one who knows you believes that nonsense,” I said with more conviction than I felt.

But why lie about her alibi?
There had to be a logical explanation for the lie. All I had to do was find out what it was. Easy peasy … not.

Maybelle reached into a desk drawer and took out a business card. “Your ex dropped by and gave this to me. Think I should give him a call?”

“I don't think you're in need of a lawyer yet, Maybelle. Besides, CJ's a whizbang at trip and falls, but he hasn't had a lot of experience in criminal cases.”

“Criminal” caused Maybelle to wince.
Me and my big mouth,
I berated myself silently. Didn't the woman have enough worries on her plate without me heaping on more?

“Chief McBride's called me in for questioning,” Maybelle blurted. “What'll I tell him?”

“McBride doesn't use thumbscrews. Just tell him the truth. He'll have this mess sorted out in no time.”

“You really think so?” she asked hopefully.

“Of course I do,” I replied, trying to infuse confidence. “Considering the rumors flying around town, talking to you is probably only a formality. Don't forget the man's paid to be suspicious. All you have to do is be honest.”

Honest?
That brought me to the crux of the matter. I absently picked up a brochure advertising the Brandywine Creek Opera House's fall season. I noticed
Steel Magnolias
was on the schedule. A real tearjerker, that one. “Maybelle,” I said, clearing my throat, “there's something I need to talk to you about.”

CJ's card clenched tight in her fist, Maybelle nodded for me to continue.

“Gerilee helped clean up after today's reception, and we got to talking.” Did I only imagine it or did panic flicker across Maybelle's face? “According to her, you weren't at the food bank the night Becca was murdered. Gerilee claimed you weren't feeling well and canceled.”

Maybelle's clasped her hands so tightly her knuckles shone white. Her face paled, then reddened. “I must've been confused.”

“If you weren't at the food bank, where were you?” There, I'd gone and done it. Addressed the elephant in the room.

“I, um, was home … alone.”

Home Alone
was probably a better movie than it was an alibi. From my television viewing I knew “home alone” was a hard one to prove. Or disprove.

“Good,” I said. “All you have to do is tell McBride what you told me, and you'll do fine.” I placed the brochure back on the pile, careful to align it with the others on the counter. “I'd better get back to my shop and relieve Lindsey.”

I gave Maybelle a smile as I left the Chamber, but she didn't smile back.

In the VW once again, I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel. Did finding Becca's body give me a vested interest in the case? Or was I just plain nosey? Nah, impossible. I had an inquiring mind, is all. But truth be told, the answer wasn't that simple. I worried Maybelle was about to find herself in the same predicament I'd been in not so long ago. I remembered what it felt like to be falsely accused. To have people you'd known for years suddenly regard you as an axe murderer. Or in Maybelle's case a brisket bludgeoner. With Becca's homicide—and Maybelle's uncertain future—uppermost in my mind, I twisted the key in the ignition and headed for Meat on Main.

Pete Barker's ruddy face creased in a grin at the sight of me. A white canvas apron swathed his ample girth. “Hey there, Piper,” he said, shoving a tray of ground chuck into the meat case. “How'd the funeral go? Big turnout, I heard.”

“Half the town was there. Guess the other half had to work.”

Pete stripped the plastic gloves from his hands, bunched them up, and tossed them toward a wastebasket. One glove landed in the intended target; the other hit the floor. “Gerilee expected a crowd. Told me she'd be dead on her feet when she came home. Advised me if I wanted supper, I'd better pick up a pizza after I lock up.”

“Never go wrong with pizza.”

“Say, can I interest you in today's special? Boneless, skinless chicken breasts. Want me to wrap up a couple?”

“Sure, why not? I'll make Lindsey and me some nice chicken salad.”

Pete donned another pair of gloves, selected a couple plump chicken breasts, and placed them on the scale. “Gerilee raved about the chicken salad you brought for the Friends of the Library luncheon. Said she's never tasted better.”

“Tell her I add a touch of curry.” I watched him wrap my purchases in heavy butcher paper. “Business must be booming,” I said, getting down to the real purpose behind my visit. “With the barbecue festival right around the corner, you must be selling a ton of brisket.”

“Brisket, ribs, pork butt, you name it. Can't keep 'em in stock. What about you? Spices flying off the shelves?”

“At the moment, cayenne seems to be leading the pack, with cumin coming in a poor second.”

“Folks tend to lose sight of the two essentials for a never-fail barbecue—a low cooking temperature and a cloud of woodsmoke. Some tend to think any old woodsmoke will do, but they're dead wrong. As any barbecuer worth their salt knows, you gotta use hardwood,”

“Why?” I asked. “What happens if you don't?”

“Take my wife's nephew for instance.” Pete chuckled at the memory. “The fool used scraps of wood he hauled home from a construction site. Worst darn barbecue I ever ate. Might as well have coated them baby backs with varnish, thanks to all the resin in the wood.”

“Sounds pretty awful,” I commiserated as I followed Pete to the register where he proceeded to ring up my order. “I don't suppose by chance you remember how many briskets Becca Dapkins ordered.”

“Let's see now.” Pete scratched the bald spot at the top of his head. “Six, she ordered six.”

“You're sure about the number?”

“Yeah, 'cause I recall thinking that was strange, since she never cooked anything that didn't call for cream of mushroom soup. But she was a woman on a mission. Bound and determined to win the Taster's Choice award. Wanted to prove to everyone she was every bit as good a cook as Maybelle Humphries.”

Six briskets minus one. Reba Mae and I had found five briskets in Becca's freezer. And most likely the missing one was the murder weapon. This information served to confirm my conviction that Becca had been killed at home.

I fished my wallet out of my purse and paid Pete for the chicken. “Thanks, Pete.”

He chuckled as he walked me to the door. “I'd be willing to lay odds that most every house in Brandywine Creek has one or more of my briskets in their fridge.”

Easy come, easy go. So much for thinking I'd found where the murder weapon originated when, according to Pete, half the people in town had an identical weapon as near as their refrigerator. Perhaps McBride was right when he said I should leave sleuthing to the professionals.

Parking behind my shop, I traipsed through the vacant lot to the rear door of Spice It Up! My constant to-and-fro had worn a path through the weeds and scrub.

“Hey, Lindsey!” I called out. “I'm back!”

Tail wagging furiously, Casey acknowledged my return with more enthusiasm than a Walmart greeter. As I passed through the storage area, I heard people talking, Lindsey's animated voice among them.

“Hey,” I said, “care if I join the party?”

“Oh, hi, Mom,” Lindsey said, her face flushed becomingly. “This is Carter Kincaid.”

Carter turned out to be the same young man I'd seen yesterday stepping out of Barbie's SUV. Up close and personal, he was quite good-looking in a scruffy sort of way. He had nice even features, a stubble-covered jaw, a mop of brown hair, and gray-green eyes. I placed him in his early twenties. “Hello, Carter.”

“Nice to meet you, ma'am.” He stuck out his hand, which I accepted.

Ma'am?
I cringed inwardly. I didn't feel old enough to be called ma'am. I was saving “ma'am” for when I turned eighty. I stowed my purse beneath the counter and slipped on an apron. “What brings you here, Carter? Are you in the market for spice?”

“No, ma'am,” he said with an engaging smile that showcased years of orthodontia. “Barbie—Ms. Quinlan—asked me to stop by, check out the natural light. She's considering your place for a segment on
Some Like It Hot
.”

“Carter's a videographer.” Lindsey's words tumbled over themselves in her excitement. “He was telling me all about his work.”

Carter tucked his hands in his jeans pockets. “Your daughter's extremely photogenic, Mrs. Prescott. She has a keen eye for detail.”

Folding my arms over my chest, I cocked my head and studied my daughter, noting her pink cheeks, the sparkle in her blue-gray eyes. “Does she now?”

Lindsey shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “Carter offered to show me how things look from behind the lens. He said he's going to suggest they film me working on Doug's team.”

“Naturally, the final call belongs to Barbie,” Carter quickly interjected. “And you'll need to sign a waiver.”

“Carter says Ms. Quinlan wants to break into investigative journalism,” Lindsey offered, all wide-eyed and duly impressed.

“Hmm,” I said. “Is that so?”

Carter nodded solemnly. “Barbie thinks murder in a small town on the eve of its annual festival might be the ticket to making the jump to cable news.”

“CNN or Fox,” Lindsey volunteered. “How cool is that?”

“Cool,” I echoed with noticeably less enthusiasm.

A popular drinking song—something about a red Solo cup—suddenly blared from Carter's pocket. He dug out a smart phone and frowned at the display. “Sorry, gotta run. See you around, Lindsey. Nice meeting you, ma'am.”

Lindsey and I stood in the front window and watched him climb into the white Escalade and drive off.

“Isn't he something?” Lindsey breathed. “A career in television must be awesome. I think I'd like to have a TV show of my own someday. You heard Carter say I was photogenic.”

I stared at her in dismay. “I thought you wanted to be a veterinarian like Dr. Winters.”

“Mo-om,” she wailed. “That was weeks ago.”

“Speaking of Doug, he needs your advice on T-shirts and wants to know if you can recruit a couple friends to help on his team. Unless I'm mistaken, he's expecting you at the animal clinic this afternoon.”

“Right. I'm practically on my way.” Lindsey ran to the counter and snatched her purse. “I wonder if Ms. Quinlan would let me hang around while she's in town. Give me some pointers.”