Kill 'Em with Cayenne (17 page)

“Mahoney stated the women had words. Threats were made. In his opinion, if you hadn't intervened their argument could have turned physical.” McBride lasered me with his icy blues. “What I don't understand, Piper, is why didn't you tell me this?”

I broke off a small piece of bread and dropped it on the floor for Casey. “They were both upset. Maybelle's still hurting over Becca stealing Buzz Oliver. When they're angry, people tend to say things they don't mean.”

His gaze fastened on mine, McBride took a long swallow of soda. “I had Maybelle come down to the station for questioning. She claims she was home alone the night Becca died.”

“Do you believe her?”

“Do you?”

I raised my shoulder and let it fall. “Single women often spend a good share of evenings home alone.”

Shoving his empty plate aside, he crumpled his paper napkin and got to his feet. “I have to admit that in light of the threats made, Maybelle tops my persons of interest list.”

I picked up the dishes and placed them in the dishwasher. “Any trace of the murder weapon?”

“A brisket? You're kidding, right? Either the killer took it with him or some animal carted it off.”

I debated whether to run the risk of being ridiculed and confide in McBride about the missing rubber gloves. In the end, I opted for full disclosure. “Reba Mae and I went over to Becca's after work tonight.”

“You two on plant patrol?”

“African violets are high maintenance.” I busied myself wiping down the countertop. “While we were there, we discovered Becca's rubber gloves are missing. A woman such as Becca, who never answered her door unless every hair was in place, wouldn't clean house or wash dishes without gloves.”

“How many times must I remind you to stay out of the investigation? This isn't a game for amateurs.”

“But what if I'm right? Isn't it possible Becca was killed at home? That the killer put on rubber gloves and used bleach to clean up any traces? What if Becca's body was moved to make it
appear
a random act of violence?”

McBride's expression grew even stonier—if that was possible. “Whoever's responsible for Becca Dapkins's death is still at large. No telling what lengths he—or she—might go to if they find you sticking your cute little nose where it doesn't belong.” He started for the stairs. “I've got enough problems without having to worry about your safety.”

“Maybelle wasn't the only one to have words with Becca that day in my shop!” I called after him.

He paused on the stairs. “Who else?”

“None other than Miss Barbie Q. Seems she and Becca Dapkins had a history. Becca even accused Barbie of being a former stripper. Barbie's no pushover. She's able to hold her own quite nicely. You might want to check her alibi for the night in question.”

Without another word, McBride headed down the stairs. Casey whined at the sharp sound of a slamming door. I wanted to do the same—whine, that is, not slam a door.

 

C
HAPTER
18

T
HE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON,
I'd just thanked the UPS driver when Doug burst through the door of my shop wearing a an ear-to-ear grin. Catching me around the waist, he whirled me in a circle.

Resting my hands lightly on his shoulders for balance, I laughed up at him, his good humor contagious. “Hey, what's the occasion? You win the lottery?”

“In a manner of speaking,” he said, and planted a quick kiss before releasing me. “Your daughter came through for me.”

“Lindsey? How's that?” I tilted my head to one side and studied him closer. Behind wire-rimmed glasses, his brown eyes sparkled with boyish enthusiasm. His prematurely gray hair was a bit disheveled, as though he'd run his hands through it countless times. Without further thought, I reached up to smooth it and found it surprisingly soft.

“Lindsey found two more members for my team,” Doug said with a smile. “We're calling ourselves the Pit Crew.”

“The Pit Crew, eh? It sounds hot and racy, like NASCAR.” I walked over to the large package the UPS driver had deposited on the counter.

“Here, let me help.” Doug followed and, before I could stop him, picked up a box cutter and slit open the box. Not even the thick plastic the peppers were encased in could smother their spicy aroma.

“Who are these new recruits?” I asked as I began to unpack the chilis—árbol and ancho, guajillo and chipotle, and the small but potent chili piquins.

“Clay Johnson, one of Reba Mae's boys, and Lindsey's friend Taylor. “

“Clay's a hard worker. I'm not sure I can say the same for Taylor.” I was pleased to learn Lindsey hadn't disappointed Doug. With summer school over, her social life had kicked into high gear. I'd noticed she had a tendency to forget casually made promises. Her intentions were good. Her follow-through not so much.

“Nothing like two pretty girls to pique the judge's interest in a lowly contestant.” Doug picked up a large dark-purple ancho chili and set it aside.

“Good choice.” I nodded toward the pepper. “Anchos are the backbone of most Mexican dishes.”

He nudged a red-orange árbol pepper that resembled a slender but withered carrot toward the ancho. “My timing couldn't have been better. Looks like I get my pick of the peppers.”

“Peter Piper picked a peck of peppers…” I sing songed.

Doug tossed an ancho into the air and caught it. “… a peck of peppers Peter Piper picked.”

“If Peter Piper…” My voice trailed off and Doug turned to see what had captured my attention.

A white SUV pulled to the curb in front of Spice It Up!, and Barbie Quinlan emerged. In a concession to July-in-Georgia heat, she wore a sleeveless summer dress the color of lemon sorbet. Its fabric clung; the color flattered. Strappy sandals added a good four inches to her height. A side part allowed her platinum-blond hair to fall peekaboo style over one eye reminiscent of movie sirens of a bygone era.

Doug let out a low whistle. “Va-va-voom!”

I felt a spurt of jealousy at hearing Doug's remark but had to give credit where credit was due. Barbie tended to have a “va-va-voom” effect on men. With her knockout figure, she could have gotten the same reaction with a paper bag over her head. Without the paper bag, she was downright lethal. I felt frumpy … and short … in comparison. I smoothed my apron, aware I must smell like eau d'chili pepper.

Barbie glided into Spice It Up! as though she owned the place, flicked a glance at my shipment. “Looks like you're ready to turn up the heat. Chili piquins?” she asked, pointing a shellacked nail at a pile of small red shriveled peppers. “Hope you post a warning:
USE WITH CAUTION
.”

“Hello, Barbie.” I plastered on a smile. “What brings you here?”

Barbie aimed her considerable charm at Doug. Giving her long hair a toss, she extended her hand. “I don't believe I've had the pleasure,” she purred. “Barbie Quinlan. Better known as Barbie Q.”

I watched with irritation as Doug squared his shoulders and tightened his abs. I was surprised his glasses didn't fog. Judging from his reaction, you'd think he was back in junior high and the most popular girl in the class had just noticed him for the first time.

“D-Doug,” he stammered at last.

“It's Doug Winters,” I explained, taking mercy on his befuddled state. “
Dr.
Doug Winters.”

“Dr.?” Barbie drawled. “I'm impressed. You look the college professor type. Or maybe the cute high school science teacher all the girls have a mad crush on.”

“I, um…” Doug struggled not to swallow his tongue.

What had come over the man?
I wondered. It wasn't as though he'd never set eyes on Barbie before. She'd been McBride's date the night Doug and I
attempted
to have dinner at Antonio's—and settled for eggs at Chez Spice. But I suspected up close and personal the Barbie-Q Factor was an even more potent effect.

“Doug's a veterinarian.” I went back to unpacking peppers. “He owns Pets 'R People, the animal clinic on Old County Road. He's also a contestant in the barbecue festival.”

“First timer,” Doug explained, adopting an aw-shucks tone. “Strictly amateur. Backyard division.”

“Wholesome, earnest, good-looking.” Barbie swept her gaze over him, making Doug blush to the roots of his silvery hair.

Hmph!
The woman had some nerve slathering compliments all over a poor unsuspecting veterinarian. Even if they were true.

“You'll be quite photogenic should we decide to film you, but first you'd need to sign a waiver, which brings me to the reason for my visit,” Barbie continued. Digging into a roomy tote bag, she extracted a printed form.

I eyed it warily. “What's that?”

She shoved it at me. “A standard release. I'll need your signature before Carter does the interior and exterior shoots. Don't bother to thank me for the unpaid advertisement.”

Necessity makes salesmen of us all. I took the form from her and began to read the small print.

“That isn't necessary.” She waved her hand impatiently. “Just sign on the dotted line.”

“I never sign anything without reading it first. It's a poor business practice.”

“Right, you were a lawyer's wife, weren't you?” she said, an underlying sneer in her voice. “I see CJ taught you a few tricks of the trade.”

“Don't I wish,” I muttered under my breath.

If I'd been more astute to “tricks of the trade,” I wouldn't have listened to CJ poor-mouth our finances. He'd gone on ad nauseam about pending medical school expenses for Chad, college tuition for Lindsey, the fluctuating stock market, the price of fuel in the Middle East, and the cost of tea in China. In the end, I'd agreed on a lump sum settlement in our divorce decree. I'd taken a gamble, rolled the dice, and invested the entire amount in a dream of mine. Owning my own business. Voilà! Spice It Up! became a reality.

My budget was tight, my profit margin minuscule, but I was squeaking by. While I “squeaked,” however, CJ had transformed into the entire brass section of the Augusta Symphony, complete with French horns and tuba. He'd purchased a swank new home on a golf course, had his teeth whitened, hair dyed, peppered the interstate with billboards—and gotten engaged to a bimbo half his age. Such is life. I've gotten over feeling bitter. I'm reinventing myself and proud of the results.

“Later, I'd like to do an interview,” Barbie said, interrupting my musing.

I glanced up from the release form. “Interview…?”

Barbie's lips curved, but there was no warmth in the smile. “Only a few simple questions. For instance, what spices were your bestsellers before the festival? We might talk a bit about the heat units of various capsicums. ‘Capsicums,'” she explained, turning to Doug, “is another name for chili peppers.”

“Doug knows all about capsicums,” I informed her. “He's a gourmet cook specializing in Indian cuisine.”

“Indian, hmm…” Barbie's pale-aqua gaze focused on Doug with renewed interest. “Chicken Tandoori is one of my favorites. Too bad I'm not going to be in town longer, or I'd persuade you to make it for me.”

Doug swallowed and managed a weak smile.

“More's the pity,” I said brightly, and handed back the signed consent. “By the way, Barbie, I didn't see you at the reception after Becca's memorial service.”

“That bitch?” Barbie jammed the waiver into her tote bag. Color rode high on her cheekbones. “I wouldn't give Becca Dapkins a drink of water if her heart was on fire. She was an evil, nasty woman. The world's better off without her.”

Barbie turned and marched out.

“Well,” Doug breathed, “that was interesting.”

“It certainly was,” I concurred.

*   *   *

Doug left after reminding me to check out a video on shag dancing on YouTube. He also pointed out that the shag contest was only four days away. I promised again to meet him for the street dance and fireworks that would take place after the festival. He took along a bag of capsicums fresh out of the box. Unable to make up his mind, he'd decided to purchase some of each.

Soon after, Buzz Oliver arrived wearing a ball cap and blue work uniform that bore a smiling bug logo. Truth is, I'd nearly forgotten about calling an exterminator. I hadn't seen another scorpion, but didn't want one to appear and send Lindsey into a hissy fit.

“Hey, Buzz.” I put the cardboard box from the chilies under the counter where I'd remember to take it to the recycle center later.

“Sorry if I kept you waiting, Piper.” He set a large stainless-steel canister with a nozzle on the floor, took off his cap, and wiped perspiration from his brow. “Expected to get here sooner, but I had a follow-up at the Beaver Dam Motel. The owner wanted me to give the place another spray for bedbugs—just in case. Bedbugs are the bane of the hotel/motel industry, you know. In addition to mattresses, they like to hide in box springs, carpets, drapes, you name it.”

“I can understand how that would be bad for business.”

“Got that right.” He replaced his cap over his crew cut. “Bedbugs are no better'n little baby vampires. They sneak out at night and suck your blood. That's where I come in. First sign of 'em, call a licensed technician like me to deal with the little buggers—pardon the pun.”

“I'll keep that in mind.” I shuddered at the thought of a possible bedbug infestation. “I found a scorpion yesterday. My daughter is deathly afraid of spiders, so—”

“Say no more.” He grabbed his sprayer and pumped it a few times. “You probably saw what we in the trade know as a devil scorpion. It's one of two types found here in Georgia.”

“You might want to pay extra attention to the storage room. Especially under the cupboards.”