Kill 'Em with Cayenne (18 page)

“Will do.” Buzz took his canister and trudged toward the rear of the shop. “Scorpions get a bad rap if you ask me.”

Had I asked him? No, didn't think so, but it didn't seem to matter.

“Scorpions aren't out looking for folks to sting. No sirree,” Buzz continued his lecture. “Most of 'em only venture out in search of food or to mate.”

Too much information?
I hadn't enrolled for a tutorial in entomology, but at least it was free of charge. “Well,” I said, “I wish they'd do their searching and mating elsewhere.”

Buzz aimed his nozzle and spewed chemicals. “What many don't realize, scorpions are a natural form of pest control, preying on all kinds of pesky insects.”

Humming to myself, I checked the shipment against the itemized invoice. I couldn't help wonder if Buzz's bug expertise somehow qualified him as a babe magnet. It certainly seemed to work with Maybelle, then Becca. Did he routinely regale the ladies with tales of bedbugs and scorpions?

I brought myself up short.
Shame on you, Piper.
The poor man had just lost his girlfriend. And here I was being totally insensitive. Talk of creepy crawlies probably was a form grief therapy.

“How are you doing, Buzz?” I said, looking up from the invoice. “You must miss Becca something fierce. What happened to her was shocking.”

“Yes, ma'am, it sure was.” He stopped spraying, took off his cap, and scratched his head. “Rumor's flying around that it was Maybelle who beaned Becca on the head with a brisket. Shoot, I've known Maybelle for years. She won't step on an ant.”

I placed a handful of guajillo peppers on the scale. “I don't believe Maybelle would harm Becca either.”

Buzz resettled his cap, a worried look on his chubby face. “Ever since we broke up, I've taken to driving past Maybelle's place at night—just to make sure she's all right. Never get up enough nerve to stop. Don't think she'd want to see me anyways, but I feel better knowing she's safe. Funny thing is, she's never home Tuesday nights.”

My ears perked up at hearing this. “Tuesdays? I think that's when she volunteers at the food bank with Gerilee.” As soon as I said this I recalled Maybelle had canceled the night of Becca's murder. She'd said she didn't feel well. That she was home alone.

“Maybelle only works at the food bank on the second Tuesday of each month. I'm saying lately she's never home Tuesday nights.”

Generally I subscribe to the philosophy that if you don't want an answer, don't ask the question. But I just couldn't help myself. “What about the night Becca was killed?”

“Nope.” He shook his head. “No lights on in her house. No car in the carport.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“Positive.” Apparently well-versed in multi-tasking, Buzz went back to spraying. “After I finished at the Beaver Dam Motel, I did a drive-by, thinking for sure she'd be home since it was already late, but no sign of her.”

This information certainly put a whole new spin on things. I felt stunned. Maybelle had lied not once, but twice, about her whereabouts the night Becca was murdered. And she'd lied to McBride as well. She hadn't been home alone. She hadn't even been home.

 

C
HAPTER
19

T
HE INSTANT
B
UZZ
left, I reached for the phone. “Reba Mae? Pack some snacks. We're going on a road trip.”

She was ready and waiting when I arrived in front of her house. “I love road trips,” she announced, stowing a small insulated bag behind the front seat. She slid into the passenger side and buckled up. “I made a couple ham and Swiss on rye with Russian dressin' case we get hungry later on. Road trips—and stakeouts—always work up an appetite. Where we goin'?”

“You'll see.” I put the Beetle in Drive, and we headed for Maybelle's. I parked halfway down the block in the shade of a sweet gum where I hoped we'd go unnoticed.

Reba Mae narrowed her eyes. “This your idea of a road trip? This close we coulda walked.”

“Oh, ye of little faith,” I scolded. “We need to do a little detective work. Find out what Maybelle is up to on Tuesday nights.”

“Why do we care what the woman does with her free time?”

“'Cause she lied to us—again. She wasn't ‘home alone' the night Becca was killed. She just plain wasn't home—alone or otherwise.”

“You're kiddin', right?”

“Wish I were. “I donned an oversized pair of sunglasses. “Buzz confessed he drives past her place every night to make sure she's all right. He said she's never home on Tuesdays. It was late when he finished fumigating the No-Tell Motel the night of the murder—and her car wasn't in the carport.”

Reba Mae's eyes widened as she digested this. “You don't really believe Maybelle killed Becca, do you?”

“No, of course not, but why lie to us if she has nothing to hide? And lie to McBride as well? In order save Maybelle from herself, we need the truth—the whole truth and nothing but the truth.”

Reba Mae reached into her purse and drew out a handful of Hershey's Kisses. “Here, take some,” she said. “Chocolate always helps me think clearer.”

“I thought you told me it helps relieve stress.”

“That too.” She unpeeled the foil and popped one in her mouth.

Three Kisses later, I saw Maybelle get in her Honda and back down the drive. “Get down,” I hissed.

We slouched as far as we could, hoping we wouldn't be spotted. McBride had once warned me that kiwi-green VW Beetles weren't the best choice for covert operations. Cautiously, I peeked over the steering wheel. Maybelle headed in the opposite direction, so I took off in hot pursuit.

After driving two blocks, she signaled a left turn and took the highway leading south out of town. I followed keeping a respectable distance between us.

“How many car lengths are we supposed to stay behind?” Reba Mae asked, unwrapping another Hershey's Kiss.

“Beats me. I've never tailed anyone before,” I replied, proud I knew the lingo. “Tailed” sounded, oh, so much better than “followed.”

“Want me to call McBride and ask 'im?”

“No!” My head snapped around to glare at her. “Jeez Louise, I don't need another lecture on minding my own business.” Let's check the situation out for ourselves before we decide what to do next.”

We were heading in a southeasterly direction. I'd come this same way too many times to count on my way to the Augusta Mall. I slowed at an intersection to allow a logging truck loaded with loblolly pines access onto the highway. These trucks were a common sight in the Southeast. The logs weren't really logs but more of a pile of long, skinny trees stacked on top of one another like toothpicks.

“I hate gettin' behind these trucks. Always worry what would happen if one of those logs pokin' out the back end came loose. Could ruin a transmission. Take out the converter. Ruin a driveshaft.”

Time for a change of subject. “How was your date with Wally last night?”

“Okay, I guess.” Reba Mae flipped a candy wrapper into the trash. Might've gone better if the boys hadn't shown up when they did. I don't think they cared for him much.”

I concentrated on staying a safe length behind the logging truck and still keeping Maybelle in view. “Why do you say that?”

Reba Mae pulled out a pack of gum and offered me a stick. “Could've been 'cause he's not a Braves fan.”

“Yeah.” I nodded sympathetically. “In this part of the world, that's a deal breaker.”

When I refused her offer of gum, she dropped the pack in her purse. “Clay tried to strike up a conversation. Sports mostly, but Wally isn't big on sports. To put it in a nutshell, he went home early. Speakin' of kids, what's Lindsey up to these days? Seems like she's spendin' more time at your place.”

“She has been ever since Amber moved in with CJ. Seems Sweetums and Pooh Bear need their alone time. Having a teenager underfoot cramps their style.”

Lindsey's defection had been a sore spot of mine. Our daughter was the quintessential daddy's girl. She'd taken our breakup hard. CJ had won her over with fancy gifts—the kind that start with an
i
, as in “iPod,” “iPad,” and “iPhone.” A sporty red Mustang didn't hurt his cause either. It wasn't until lately the tide had turned and she started spending more time at my place.

Leaning forward, Reba Mae peered through the windshield. “Where do you suppose Maybelle's goin'?

“We'll soon find out.”

The logging truck eventually turned into a mill that would chew the towering loblollies into particleboard eventually used in the manufacture of furniture. I maintained a respectable distance of at least two car lengths between Maybelle's Honda and my Beetle. Traffic thickened the closer we came to Augusta.

At the junction of Interstate 20—a major east–west thoroughfare spanning from Texas to South Carolina—Maybelle flicked on her turn signal and merged with eastbound traffic. I followed suit. Surveillance was simpler now. I had no problem staying hidden from view behind a beat-up truck and a Toyota.

“This is the route I take to the mall,” Reba Mae commented. “S'pose we have time to duck into Dillard's? They're havin' a big shoe sale.”

I blew out a breath. “Reba Mae, we're on a mission, not a shoe-shopping expedition.”

“Seems a shame, is all, to waste a perfectly good opportunity. I saw their ad in the paper. All their summer stuff is marked down. This time of year you can find some real good buys.”

“We don't know for sure that Maybelle
is
going to the mall.”

No sooner had the words left my mouth when I saw Maybelle's turn signal blink. I followed her onto Interstate 520, known locally as the Bobby Jones Expressway. Bobby Jones, as I'd quickly learned upon moving to Dixie, was a legendary golfer and Georgia's fair-haired son. The most successful amateur golfer to ever compete, he retired from competition at the tender age of twenty-eight. He's credited with founding the Augusta National Golf Club, home to the prestigious Masters Tournament, which CJ and I were once fortunate to attend.

“I knew it.” Reba Mae pumped her fist in the air when Maybelle turned onto Wrightsboro Road. “We're goin' shoppin'.”

The Augusta Mall loomed ahead of us. Maybelle drove past Macy's and pulled into a parking spot near Dillard's. I continued down the row but didn't stop.

“What are you doin'?” Reba Mae cried. “We're gonna lose her.”

“Watch and learn,” I said. I continued along and found a parking spot the next row over where I had a clear view of her car. “We can either sit and wait—or follow on foot. What do you have in the way of a disguise?”

Reba Mae stared at me blankly for a second, then pawed through her purse like a gopher digging a hole. She produced sunglasses and a silk scarf in a bold geometric print, which she proceeded to wrap around her head and tie. “How's that?”

“You look like my Polish grandmother setting out to buy kielbasa back in Hamtramck, Michigan.”

“Nothin' wrong with kielbasa.”

Twisting around in my seat, I rummaged through flotsam and jetsam on the floor behind me. “Ever try
golombki
or taste a pierogi?” I asked, suddenly nostalgic for Sunday dinner at my grandmother's house in what once had been a Polish enclave surrounded by the city of Detroit.

“More likely to feast on shrimp and grits.”

“
Golombki
is stuffed cabbage.” I managed to unearth a floppy-brimmed straw hat I used on occasion to lower the freckle factor and jammed it on. “Pierogies are these little crescent-shaped dumplings. My grandmother filled hers with potatoes and cheddar cheese. Then she'd fry them in butter and onions. People think Paula Deen loves butter, but they never met my
babci
.”

“Get a move on, girl. We're losin' daylight,” Reba Mae urged. “You can reminisce on our way home.”

We scrambled out of the VW and, darting around parked cars, made our way toward the entrance. I caught my reflection in the rearview mirror of a Camry and giggled. “Think people will think it's strange we're wearing sunglasses indoors?”

Reba Mae opened the department store door and held it for me. “Sure they will, sugar, but folks in the South are too polite to say anythin'.”

“There she is,” I said, pointing at our quarry. “Looks like Maybelle's making a beeline for the escalator.”

We waited till she rose midway to the next floor before we stepped on board. I was careful to keep my head down but my eyes peeled. Reba Mae kept her head turned, studying the racks of summer clothing below. I knew she secretly longed to plunge through the sale items in search of a bargain.

Upon reaching the second floor, Maybelle briskly exited the store and headed in the direction of the food court. When she paused and gazed around expectantly, I grabbed Reba Mae's arm. The two of us pretended interest in a display in the window of a jewelry store.

As I continued to watch out of the corner of my eye, Maybelle walked to the Chic-fil-A kiosk, ordered a soft drink, and sat down at a table for two overlooking the lower level of the mall. A quick glance at her wristwatch told me she was waiting for someone. But who?

“What now?” Reba Mae whispered.

I grabbed a mall directory from a rack. In movies, private investigators always hid behind newspapers, but let's face it, in real life a girl's got to be flexible, learn how to improvise. Reba Mae, following my sterling example, grabbed a directory, too.

We sidled over to the food court and plunked ourselves down at a table partially hidden behind a pillar along the perimeter of the food court. I peered over the top of the directory, which I held in front of me like a shield. “Why do you suppose Maybelle is acting so weird?” I asked, my voice low. “She looks different, too.”