Kill 'Em with Cayenne (32 page)

“Well now, let me think.” Felicity's brow furrowed; then her expression cleared. “Oh yes, I remember. It was shortly after he arrived in Brandywine Creek. Matter of fact, it was the very day Becca's body was discovered. I remember thinking how considerate of him to distract us from the terrible tragedy that had just transpired.”

“Oh…”
Coincidence? Or just plain creepy?

Felicity studied me worriedly. “You look a bit pale, dear. Are you feeling all right?”

“I just need a breath of fresh air is all.”

“I should have warned you that Wally's martinis are potent. Not to mention all the wine.” She patted my arm. “Why don't you sit a spell while I check on the peach cobbler?”

My head was reeling—and it had nothing to do with alcohol. Tex Mahoney had just zoomed to the top spot on my persons-of-interest list. By his own admission, he hated cheaters. And judging from the drawer of flavor injectors, Becca had intended to cheat her way to success. Had Tex discovered her plan? Did a mean temper lurk under the lazy drawl and good ol' boy charisma? Was the out-of-this-world brisket he'd prepared the day I'd found her body a clever attempt to destroy the murder weapon?

For Felicity's benefit, I fabricated a tipsy smile and wobbled unsteadily down the hall. Pausing outside the dining room, I waved my arms to flag down Reba Mae's attention. She glanced up, about to speak, but I held my finger to my lips and beckoned her.

Muttering an excuse about needing to visit the little girls' room, she joined me in the hallway. I caught her arm and pulled her toward the curving stairway that led to the upper level. “I need to search Tex's room.”

She regarded me suspiciously. “Girl, how many martinis did you drink?”

“I think Tex murdered Becca.”

“Let me smell your breath,” Reba Mae ordered. “You never could tolerate hard liquor.”

“I don't have time to explain,” I whispered. “All I'm asking is that you keep everyone occupied downstairs while I look for clues.”

Reba Mae stared at me as if I'd taken leave of my senses. “Honeybun, you're crazy as a loon.”

“We can debate that later, but right now I need you to watch my back.”

“Well,” she said at last, “if you're gonna sneak around you'd better do it barefoot. High heels make one heck of a racket on these hardwood floors.”

If I had time, I would have hugged her. Instead, I slipped off my shoes and hid them behind a plant stand with a trailing Boston fern. Giving my BFF a thumbs-up, I hiked up my skirt and darted up the stairs.

I found myself in a wide center hallway, its heart pine floor cushioned with a runner in subdued colors. Doors with bronze nameplates bearing names of various military leaders opened off either side. Names such as those of Brigadier Generals William T. Wofford, George T. Anderson, and Henry Benning. If I had to venture a guess, these officers served in the Confederate army.

From below I could hear the soft murmur of voices and I knew I didn't have much time. My heart hammered in my ears as I pushed open the door on my right. Women's clothing was strewn across a chaise lounge. The antique dresser was cluttered with jewelry, cosmetics, and expensive perfume bottles, telling me the room belonged to the barbecue princess.

I left quietly and moved on. I struck pay dirt when I entered a room labeled:
BRIGADIER GENERAL MATHEW D. ECTOR.
Unlike Barbie's, it was neat as a pin. Distinctly masculine. Who was the neatnik? I wondered. Wally or Tex?

I ventured farther inside, cautiously shutting the door behind me. There were no closets to sift through, since homes of that period favored bulky armoires rather than spacious walk-ins. My question as to the room's occupant was answered when I eased the armoire open and found it crammed with Tex's Western-style shirts and jeans.

Any lingering doubt vanished at spying a silver belt buckle inlaid with turquoise on the dressing table. I eased open a drawer of the nightstand, but the only thing it contained was a Gideon Bible. I was about to close it when something caught my eye. Several scraps of paper protruded between the pages. Had someone used them to mark a favorite passage? My curiosity piqued, I picked the Bible up for a better look, and two small pieces of paper floated to the floor. Even before I scooped them up, I sensed I'd just found Maybelle's missing alibi.

I stared down at them. What to do? What to do? I gnawed my lower lip and pondered my options. I needed to show McBride my find. I'd worry later about explaining how I found proof of Maybelle's innocence. I knew from past experience he'd be a hard sell. There were dozens, maybe even hundreds, of movie tickets sold any given night. Everyone has gas station receipts. This particular station was located at a busy intersection. Tex could have filled his tank there as easily as Maybelle. But what about fingerprints? What if Maybelle's—and now mine—were on the credit card receipt? Wouldn't that be significant? I slipped both of them into my skirt pocket.

Nervously I glanced over my shoulder. I'd dawdled long enough. It was time to skedaddle. I replaced the Bible and hurried out of the bedroom. I was congratulating myself on a clean getaway when Tex met me halfway down the stairs.

“These yours, little lady?” he asked, holding up my peep-toe stilettos.

Forcing a smile, I reached for my shoes, but he held them just out of reach.

“Any reason why you're parading around upstairs in your bare feet while the rest of us are corralled below?”

I thought I detected an underlying hardness in the soft drawl. “I wasn't feeling well,” I fibbed. “I thought Felicity might have some aspirin in her medicine cabinet.”

Snatching my shoes out of his hands, I squeezed past him on the staircase. I felt his eyes bore into my back as I fled.

 

C
HAPTER
34

I
DRUMMED MY
fingers on the steering wheel. The
click, click
sound made by my nails seemed the equivalent of Chinese water torture on my frayed nerves. The two receipts I'd retrieved, confiscated, appropriated—or blatantly robbed—from Tex Mahoney's room were burning a hole in my pocket. To my way of thinking, they were tantamount to proof positive that Tex murdered Becca and had tried to frame Maybelle. Problem number one was how to convince McBride. Problem number two was how to explain why I was in possession of two incriminating pieces of evidence. I wasn't a fashion maven, but neither was I fond of orange jumpsuits.

Put on your big-girl panties and stop being a wuss
. Problem number three was to locate the lawman. Would I find him behind his desk at the police department? Or had he already left for the day? Deciding to swing by the station, I shifted into Drive. If I didn't see his truck in its usual parking spot, I'd drive by his house. I'd smile nicely while asking him to check the receipts for fingerprints. Next, I'd suggest he haul Tex down to the station and grill him like a rack of ribs.

I cruised down Lincoln Street, bypassing the stage set up for Zeke Blessing and his blues band and slowing when I reached the Brandywine Creek Police Department. There was no sign of McBride's vehicle in the adjacent lot, so I continued on my merry way. I was contemplating confronting McBride on his home turf when I recognized his big black Ford F-150 parked down the block from North of the Border. Who was I to argue with fate?

Lights blazed in the windows of the Mexican restaurant. Cars lined both sides of the street. People waiting for tables congregated in the doorway. Tomorrow barbecue would reign supreme, but tonight was meant for mariachi music and margaritas. As if from a stroke of a magic wand, a SUV pulled out of a parking space, and I pulled in. I still hadn't devised a tactful way of confessing I'd committed a felony, or at least a misdemeanor, but I refused to let that deter me. I hurried from my car and pushed my way through the crowd.

Waiters bustled back and forth with trays of burritos and fajitas. Nacho greeted me with a harried smile. “Señora, we have no empty tables, but if you'd care to wait…”

“That's quite all right, Nacho,” I said. “I'm here to meet Chief McBride.”

“Ah…” Worry clouded Nacho's round face. “The chief is here, señora, but he's with a lady friend.”

Lady friend…?
That bit of information stopped me dead in my tracks. Barbie Q? Of course, why hadn't the possibility occurred to me sooner? That explained the woman's absence at Felicity's dinner party. And who better to have a date with than a macho police chief? Not that I cared.

I craned my neck, hoping to spot the couple. “Just point me in McBride's direction, Nacho.”

“He's in a booth, señora, at the back. Would you like—”

I didn't wait to hear the rest of the sentence. Weaving my way through a maze of waiters and patrons, I zeroed in on my prey. I instantly recognized the back of Barbie's bleached-blond head. I dodged a portly gentleman with a bad comb-over just as McBride looked up. True to his calling, his face mirrored suspicion at seeing me.

Barbie, observing the change in her date's expression, glanced over her shoulder. I didn't have to be clairvoyant to know what she was thinking. Her displeasure was written all over her face. “What do you want now?” she demanded the instant I arrived tableside.

I ignored her—or at I least tried to. “McBride, we need to talk,” I said, not bothering with a
sorry to interrupt
.

“Can't it wait?” he asked.

“We just ordered dinner,” Barbie snapped. “Go away!”

“It's a matter of life or death.”

“Really, Piper,” she said plaintively. “Stop being such a drama queen. Isn't it obvious Wyatt's off duty?”

It was obvious all right. The jeans and T-shirt were a dead giveaway. At the word “dead,” a sense of urgency washed over me. Impatient, I shifted my weight from one foot to the other. Soon I'd be reduced to hand-wringing. “It's important,” I said.

Leaning back, McBride eyed me with his electric blues. “So speak, then.”

“In private.” I wanted desperately to take McBride's arm and bodily haul him to his feet. “It'll only take a minute.”

Tossing his napkin aside, he eased himself from the booth. “This better be good. Let's go.”

He started toward the front entrance, but I jerked his sleeve. “No,” I said. “There's too many people milling around. Better if we use the rear entrance.”

He scowled but followed my lead out the back door and into a narrow alley. “What's with the cloak-and-dagger? Ever think of applying for a position in the CIA?”

Now that I had McBride all to myself I didn't know where to begin. Would he see my actions as breaking and entering? I'd confess to the entering, but since I hadn't broken anything had I really committed a crime?

“The clock's ticking,” he said, then waited for me to continue. Say as little as possible while allowing the other person to babble like the village idiot. Must've been a technique he'd mastered over the years.

“I … er,” I stalled, digging the receipts out of my pocket and shoving them into his hands. “Here.”

He glanced at them, then back at me. “And these are…?”

“Maybelle's alibi. They prove she was at a movie and stopped for gas during the time Becca was killed, therefore she's innocent.”

“I'm not going to like the answer, but how do these happen to be in your possession?”

“I found them.” And that was the truth, the gospel truth, and nothing but the truth.

“I see,” he muttered. “Exactly where did you find them?”

“Where?” I repeated.
Dang!
I'd hoped he wouldn't ask.

“You heard me. Don't pretend you've suddenly gone deaf.”

I looked down at the ground and nudged a pebble with my patent-leather peep-toe. “Perhaps ‘found' isn't the correct word,” I conceded grudgingly.

He blew out a breath. “Kindly clue me in to the correct word.”

“They fell out of a book—a Bible—if you must know. They fell and I found.”

That was a hair closer to the truth. The two scraps of paper had succumbed to the law of gravity and fallen to the floor, where I'd picked them up. Surely that constituted finding.

“I see,” he murmured. Should I remind him that he was repeating himself? I wondered. A peek at his face, however, warned me to hold my tongue.

“I'm curious, Piper,” he continued. “Care to tell me where this Bible was when you happened to pick it up and Maybelle's alibi just happened to fall to the floor?”

“Mmm.” Nervously I started to look at my wristwatch for the time, then realized I'd forgotten to wear it. “Ah … the Bible was at the Turner-Driscoll House. You know how those Gideons are about putting a Bible in every room.”

McBride's patience was wearing thin. “Let's narrow it down a bit, shall we? Which room was it in? And what were you doing there—conducting a prayer service?”

“If you must know, I was looking for the ladies' room when I happened into Tex Mahoney's room by mistake,” I lied, keeping my fingers crossed. “That's where I found the receipts. I think Tex murdered Becca,” I blurted. There, I'd gone and done it—stopped being a wuss.

McBride studied the ticket stub and gas receipt. “Who's to say Tex Mahoney didn't go to a movie and stop for gas on the way from Augusta to Brandywine Creek?”

The thought hadn't occurred to me. “I suppose it's possible,” I said slowly.

“These, in and of themselves, don't prove Maybelle's not guilty of murder. Dozens of movie tickets are sold every evening. As for the gasoline receipt, the station's popular. I've stopped there a time or two myself.”

“But don't you think it's strange that Maybelle told Reba Mae and me about having an alibi and shortly afterward her wallet was stolen? Isn't it odd Maybelle and Tex would go to the
same
movie and stop at the
same
gas station on the
same
night Becca was murdered? I didn't think you were a great believer in coincidence. Besides, Maybelle's credit card info should be on the gas receipt along with the time of purchase.”