Kill 'Em with Cayenne (20 page)

Preoccupied with thoughts of discarded cans and bottles, I dug in the pocket of my gym shorts for my key. Then realized a key wouldn't be necessary. The back door of Spice It Up! stood ajar. Even an amateur sleuth such as myself could distinguish scratch marks on a lock.

When I gave the door a tentative shove, it swung open. To enter or not to enter? Or should I call the police and stay put? Undecided, I caught my lower lip between my teeth. I didn't want to be like the girl in a horror movie who, dumb as a box of rocks, went down creaking steps into a darkened basement while the audience screamed a warning. Instead, I fumbled for my cell phone and dialed 911.

Dorinda, the dispatcher, recognized my voice. “Don't tell me you found another dead body.”

“Not this time.” I managed a shaky laugh. “I think someone broke into my shop while I was jogging.”

“Stay right where you are,” Dorinda instructed. “An officer's on the way.”

I gingerly lowered myself to the ground and rested my back against the warming brick. Casey hunkered down beside me. I dreaded another lecture from McBride. I could hear him already:
Get a stronger lock, don't play detective, leave police work to the police.
Yada yada yada.

To my immense relief—and equally immense disappointment—it wasn't McBride who responded to my call but Sergeant Beau Tucker, one of CJ's poker buddies.

“Hey there, Piper.” Beau hitched his trousers higher on his paunchy stomach. “Dorinda said to hustle on over. That you had a break-in.”

I rose and brushed dirt from the seat of my pants. “The back door was partially open. I debated whether to check things for myself, but decided to call you instead.”

“Good thinkin'.” Unsnapping his holster, he drew out his service weapon. “No tellin' if the perp is still on the premises.”

I resisted the urge to pace while Beau entered my shop, his gun at the ready. Casey sat near the door, his little body tense, his dark eyes shiny as buttons. After what seemed an eternity, Beau returned, reholstered his pistol, and spoke into a radio clipped to his shoulder. “Place secure, Dorinda. Tell McBride no need for backup.”

I felt foolish now that my nerves had settled. “Thanks for coming.”

“No sense takin' chances. Like I tell my wife, follow your gut.” He took a small black notebook and a pen from the pocket of his uniform shirt. “How much cash do you keep on hand?”

“Not much. Fifty dollars usually.” I rubbed my arms to erase the sudden chill. “Why? Was I robbed?”

Beau jotted this down. “Your cash register's been pried open. Looks like the crook did a smash and grab. In and out. Speed and surprise. It's all over in a jiffy. I want you to go inside, take a good look around. See if anythin' missin' beside the cash.”

I did as he directed, but other than an empty cash drawer, nothing seemed to be disturbed. I offered up a silent prayer of gratitude that Lindsey had spent the night at a girlfriend's. No telling what might have happened if Lindsey had woken up and confronted a robber. She could have been hurt or killed. If McBride's theory that Becca had been the victim of a robbery gone awry proved true, Lindsey might have suffered the same fate. I broke out in a cold sweat. The very thought turned my knees to jelly.

“I'll send a man over to dust for prints.” Beau tucked the notebook back in his pocket. “In the meantime, I'd splurge on a new lock.”

As soon as he left, I reached for my cell and called Gray's Hardware. My trendy racerback jogging top would have to wait a bit longer.

 

C
HAPTER
21

“H
ONEYBUN, YOU ALL
right?” Reba Mae, accompanied by a dapper-looking Wally Porter, hurried into Spice It Up! “Jolene phoned, said you were robbed.”

“Still a little shaken, but otherwise I'm fine.”

News travels fast in small towns. Bad news even faster. In olden times, word traveled by tom-toms, Pony Express, telegraph, telephone. None of these would've been necessary if Jolene Tucker had been on the scene. Jolene's the wife of Beau Tucker, part-time poker player, full-time cop. She's Brandywine Creek's version of Gossip Girl. Dottie Hemmings and Ned Feeney were nothing to sneeze at either when it came to spreading the news but couldn't compete with Jolene.

“Sure you're okay?” Reba Mae's pretty brown eyes mirrored her concern. “Wally and I were shocked at the news.”

Wally bobbed his shaved head. “Anything we can do?”

“No, but I appreciate the offer.” I made an expansive gesture to encompass the tidy shelves stocked with spices from the four corners of the earth. “As you can see, nothing else was disturbed.”

“I hope you aren't in the habit of keeping a lot of cash on hand,” Wally said.

“No, I usually deposit the day's receipts after closing. I only keep fifty dollars in small bills to make change the next day.”

“That's wise. Lots of people on drugs these days are looking to score fast bucks. That sort doesn't worry if someone gets hurt in the bargain.”

“First thing I'm goin' to do when I get to the Klassy Kut is check the locks,” Reba Mae declared. “No tellin' where the robber's gonna strike next.”

“You ladies might think about investing in a good security system,” Wally advised. “If you like, I can give you the names of some reputable companies.”

Reba Mae squeezed his arm and beamed up at him. “Wally has connections.”

“Thanks for the suggestion, but Ned Feeney is coming by later to install the finest lock Gray's Hardware carries. For the time being, it's the most I can afford.”

“Locks are good but, in my estimation, not much of a deterrent for anyone serious about breaking and entering. A woman living alone can't be too careful.”

Wally's words made me nervous. I ran my hands down the sides of my apron. “I'm not alone. Most times my daughter's here. And my guard dog is ready to go into attack mode the instant I give the signal.”

Wally's muddy-gray gaze darted to the rear of the shop where Casey rested behind a baby gate. “Cute dog,” he commented. “Border terrier?”

I glanced over my shoulder. Casey lazily opened one eye, then promptly went back to napping. “Mutt,” I admitted. “From a long, distinguished line of mutts. He shows great potential, however.”

Reba Mae hooked her arm through Wally's. “My first client of the day canceled—her mother-in-law fell and broke her hip. So I invited Wally over for breakfast this morning.”

“Eggs Benedict.” Wally patted his trim midriff. “I'd have to join a gym if I stayed in town much longer.”

The man was built solid as a fire hydrant, and, to me, it looked more muscle than fat. “Reba Mae's a fantastic cook,” I concurred.

Wally placed a manicured hand over Reba Mae's. “I told her it's a damn shame she didn't enter the competition. She'd give the others a run for their money.”

“Speaking of barbecue,” Reba Mae said, trying hard not to look too pleased at the compliment, “our next stop is the Chamber of Commerce. Wally needs a final count on the number of entrants. Maybelle promised she'd have the information for him this morning.”

“Have a good one.” I waved them off with a smile.

No sooner had the door closed behind them when Tex Mahoney sauntered in looking larger than life in cowboy boots, Stetson, and faded jeans with a silver and turquoise belt buckle the size of a small platter.

“Mornin', ma'am.” He tipped his hat. “Heard tell you had your share of excitement this early in the day. Sorry to hear about the break-in. Glad to see you're all right.”

I went behind the counter and switched on the computer. “The thief got away with fifty dollars in petty cash. In return, I get a new lock for my door.”

He tugged his ear. “Coulda been worse. Even so, it makes a body feel vulnerable.”

“It certainly does.”
Vulnerable.
Tex's comment nailed the sentiment I was experiencing. With an effort, I shook off the feeling and concentrated on business. “Is there something special I can help you with?”

“I'm on the prowl for somethin' that imparts a unique flavor to my sauce. Subtle but not overpowerin'. I thought I'd add a smidgen of anise and see what happens.”

“Anise is an interesting choice.” Tex followed me as I left the counter and headed for the Hoosier cabinet where I kept the majority of my baking spices. “Anise should impart a sweet, licorice-like taste, warm and fruity. Most of my customers use it when baking cookies or cake, but in the Mediterranean it's in demand to flavor aperitifs and liqueurs such as ouzo and anisette.”

Tex grinned. “I'll keep that in mind should I get a hankerin' for one or the other.”

I picked up a jar containing the small, oval seeds. “Would you like the anise whole or ground?”

“Ground if you would, ma'am.”

I brought out the coffee mill I used exclusively for grinding spice. “While I'm doing this, take a look around. You might find other spices you'd like to experiment with as well.”

He prowled the aisles, picking up and setting down, before finally settling on a half-ounce container of cardamom pods. “Not every day one can find spice this fresh,” he commented. “I'll be sure to recommend this place to friends who might be travelin' through this part of the country.”

“Please do.” I smiled at the prospect as I placed his purchases in a bag and added one of my business cards for good measure. “I also accept mail-order requests.”

“Service with a smile.” He handed me his Visa. “You'd make a good Texan, little lady.”

Little lady?
It was impossible to take offense when the words slipped out so naturally. I ran his card through my machine and waited until it printed a receipt. “Did you know cumin and anise are in the same family? Caraway too.”

“You don't say.” He gave his earlobe another tug, then let out a long sigh. “I need to make a confession. My conscience's been botherin' me somethin' fierce. Wish I woulda kept my big mouth shut, but that's not my strong suit.”

I'm no shrink—not a bartender or hairdresser either—but the man seemed to be in a quandary and needed to unburden himself. “If you want to talk about what's troubling you…”

He scuffed the floor with the toe of a well-worn boot. “Truth of the matter, I'm ashamed of myself for tattlin' to Chief McBride about a conversation I overheard between the woman who was killed and that nice Miss Maybelle. The lady doesn't strike me a cold-blooded killer. I know she's a friend of yours. S'pose she'd forgive me once I apologized?”

Tipping my head to one side, I eyed the man as I mulled over my response. Maybelle wasn't much for sharing recipes, and except for Becca Dapkins, I've never known her to harbor a grudge. “Only thing you can do is ask,” I said slowly. “This time of day, Maybelle can usually be found at the Chamber.”

“Maybe I'll mosey over, see for myself. Thanks for your help, Miss Piper.” He touched fingertips to the brim of his Stetson. As I watched him stroll off, I couldn't help but think that perhaps Maybelle wasn't the failure with men she believed herself to be.

Since there were no customers at the moment, I released the latch on the baby gate and let Casey roam. I began to clean the spice grinder but dropped the cleaning cloth on the floor. Before I could retrieve it, Casey pounced on it. I ordered him to drop it, but apparently thinking it was a game, he ran off with the cloth clamped between his jaws. I got a clean cloth and went about my task. When I finished a short while later, I noticed Casey running around in circles chasing his tail.

“What are you doing, you crazy little dog?” I asked, both exasperated and amused by his antics.

Casey responded by lying on the heart pine floor and rolling around. I watched his bizarre behavior for several minutes. Then, like a lightbulb going off above the head of a cartoon character, the answer occurred to me. I recalled an article I'd read that said some dogs go crazy over anise seed like cats do over catnip. The effects would wear off shortly, but in the meantime Casey was in doggie heaven.

The morning passed quickly with people stopping by to ask questions about my stolen cash but leaving with a jar of this or that. I'd just finished a late lunch—the last of the chicken salad—when Amber Leigh Ames, dressed in a cherry-red tank top and a white twill skirt that showcased her long, tanned legs, breezed in,

“Hey there, Piper. “Miss Peach Pit stood hands on hips and gazed around. “Pity your place isn't doin' much business. Guess folks don't care much for bare brick walls and old floorboards.”

I tossed my paper plate and napkin in the trash. “Spice shopping?” I asked, ignoring her snide remark.

“Heavens no. The less time I spend in a kitchen, the better I like it.” She flicked a disparaging glance at my sunny yellow apron. “Aprons remind me of my meemaw. I wouldn't be caught dead wearin' anythin' so tacky.”

Since I was feeling my temper rise, it was time to cut to the chase. Sliding off the stool behind the counter, I folded my arms across my apron-clad bosom. “Out with it, Amber. You're not here to discuss the merits of ancho chili peppers versus árbol.”

“Well,” she drawled prettily, “CJ and I were talkin' the other night, and—”

I placed my hands over my ears. “If this was pillow talk, please, I don't want to hear it.”

“No.” Amber tossed her long brunette tresses. “Our conversation took place over dinner.”

I slowly lowered my hands, my expression wary. “Exactly how do I fit into this ‘conversation' of yours?”

“CJ and I think it would be a show of solidarity and goodwill if you paid half of Lindsey's expenses to our weddin'—room, airfare, incidentals, and such. Let her know we're one happy family.”