Kill 'Em with Cayenne (21 page)

“Room, airfare,
and
incidentals?” I sputtered. I needed a new lock on my back door, a high-tech security system, a cute little jogging outfit, not a trip to the Caribbean in peak season. “I'm afraid I can't afford to be so … extravagant,” I said at last.

“I found this absolutely amazing five-star resort in Punta Cana with a spa,” Amber prattled on. “The Christmas holidays are popular travel times to the Dominican Republic, but if we book early we can get a discount on airfare.”

“If CJ wants Lindsey at his wedding, he's going to have to pick up the tab,” I said with finality.

I was spared further discussion when Ned Feeney, local handyman and gofer, meandered in. “Hey, Miz Piper.” He brandished the paper sack he held. “Mr. Gray sent me over to put a new lock on your back door. Hope I'm not interruptin'.”

“Hey yourself, Ned. Your timing's perfect.” I felt like giving the man a hug. “Miss Ames was just leaving.”

Amber opened her mouth to speak, then snapped it shut. Turning on her heel, she stalked out.

Ned sniffed his armpit. “Hope it wasn't me.”

“You're fine, Ned.” Ned Feeney was a lanky, affable man somewhere between the ages of thirty and sixty. His loopy grin and prominent Adam's apple always put me in mind of the Gomer Pyle character on the old
Andy Griffith Show
.

Shoving back the bill of his ever-present University of Georgia ball cap, Ned asked, “Heard the news?”

“You mean news other than me being robbed of petty cash?” I asked as I started to straighten a shelf.

“Everyone's talkin' about how Brandywine Creek's undergoin' a crime spree, the likes of which never been seen before.”

“Surely you're exaggerating.” Ned relished gossip more than catfish and sweet tea.

“No sirree.” Ned shook his head. “First off, Miz Dapkins gets bashed on the head and her purse stole. Next your place is robbed. And now Miz Humphries at the Chamber reported her wallet stole out of her purse while she was attendin' to folks.”

Maybelle's wallet stolen?

Not only her wallet but her alibi also.

 

C
HAPTER
22

“N
ED, THAT'S AWFUL!
Are you sure?”

He crossed his heart. “Sure as church on Sunday.”

I was stunned to learn about Maybelle's wallet being stolen. My first instinct was to trot over to the Chamber. Hear the details firsthand. But I couldn't very well run off and leave Ned Feeney in charge of Spice It Up!

“Folks are havin' a conniption,” Ned continued. “Mr. Gray said he's keepin' a .38 under the counter. Ever think about gettin' a gun, Miz Piper?”

“No. Not now, not ever.” I resumed the task of straightening shelves. “Besides, I have a better weapon—a bona fide guard dog.”

As though sensing he was the topic of conversation, Casey lifted his head off his paws and yawned.

“Right cute little dog you have, but he didn't keep your store safe this mornin', now did he?”

“Casey wasn't here at the time,” I replied, feeling compelled to defend my mutt.

“Lots of ladies have little pistols. Carry 'em in their pocketbooks. Miz Hemmings has a pink one. If you ask all nice, she'll probably show you. Might even tell you where she bought it.”

“Shouldn't you get started on my lock?” I suggested. “No telling how long it might take.”

“Yes, ma'am. I'm on it like white on rice.” His stride ungainly, he headed toward the rear of the shop. “'Preciate Mr. Gray at the hardware givin' me some odd jobs. Mr. Strickland over at the Eternal Rest hasn't had a single customer since Miz Dapkins passed last week. Not even any from the old folks home.”

I fervently hoped the undertaker's business remained slow. I didn't care that funerals were classified as major social events. I'd had my fill.

Ned was still puttering with the lock when Lindsey returned from her friend Taylor's. “Someone said you were robbed!” Lindsey rushed over and pecked me on the cheek. “You okay, Mom?”

I ran my hand down her hair. “I'm fine, sweetie. Thankfully, the thief only made off with the petty cash.”

“I meant to get home earlier, but Taylor and I stayed up late watching a DVD and we overslept. Then with all this humidity, I couldn't do a thing with my hair. Lucky for me, I remembered Amber has a ceramic flatiron she said I could borrow, so I went over to Daddy's before coming here.” Then, like quicksilver, her mood changed. “Is it true?” she asked, fisting her hands on her hips.

“Don't take that tone with me, young lady,” I said sharply. “Is what true?”

Her blue-gray eyes stormy, Lindsey jutted her lower lip out much like she used to do as a toddler gearing up for a tantrum. “Amber said you refused to let me go to her and Daddy's wedding.”

I slammed a jar of vanilla beans down on a shelf. “I merely told Amber that if they wanted you as maid of honor, Daddy's going to have to foot the bill.”

“How much can a plane ticket cost?” she asked plaintively. “Amber said there's a discount for booking early.”

Amber said. Amber said. I was sick and tired of “Amber said.” “It wasn't only the cost of round-trip airfare,” I said through clenched teeth, aware of Ned, still at the back, latching on to every syllable. “We're talking gown, shoes, room,
and
‘incidentals,' which I translated as spa treatments. We're talking at least a thousand dollars, maybe more. I can't afford that kind of money.”

“Hmph,” Lindsey sniffed, but I could tell she was doing the math. From the hours she'd spent working behind the counter she knew I struggled to make ends meet. “Maybe I can earn enough to pay for the airfare by babysitting. There's still time between now and December. I'll talk to Daddy, see if he'll pay the difference.”

I nodded, grateful she understood and accepted the situation. “Say, I've got an idea. I can't pay more than minimum wage, but keep track of the hours you work. I'll write you a check the end of each month.”

All traces of pique vanished, and she smiled. “Deal, but I'll work for free till you earn back what you lost this morning.”

“You can start right now.” Untying my apron, I handed it to her. “I want to run over to the Chamber. Have a chat with Maybelle.”

“Okay.” Lindsey donned an apron, careful not to muss her newly straightened locks. “Don't wait up for me tonight. I'll probably get in late. Doc wants the entire Pit Crew at his place to review plans for the festival. He's even fixing us dinner.”

I gave a lock of her hair a playful tug. “Let me guess. Ribs or brisket?”

“Neither.” She laughed. “Doc said by the end of this week we'd have our fill of barbecue. He also told me to remind you to practice your steps for the shag contest.”

I was nearly out the door when she called out to me, “Oh, I nearly forgot. Doc said you need to make an appointment to have Casey neutered!”

Neutered?
I mentally cringed at the thought. Casey looked up at me, trust in his big brown eyes. My sweet little puppy had no idea what was in store for him. I beat a hasty exit.

I found Maybelle behind her desk at the Chamber of Commerce staring blankly at the computer screen. She glanced up as I entered, then promptly burst into tears at the sight of me.

“Y-you h-heard?” she sobbed.

“So it's true,” I said, handing her a tissue from a box on the counter. “Ned told me the bad news.”

“What am I going to do, Piper?” she wailed, dabbing her eyes. “I kept both the movie stub and the receipt for gas in my billfold. I wanted them to be safe until I showed them to Chief McBride.”

“There, there.” I clumsily rubbed her back. “I thought you were going to see the chief first thing this morning.”

“I was,” she sniffed. “I did.”

Confused, I sank into a chair next to hers. “What happened?”

“Dorinda was on the desk. She said the chief was in an important meeting with the mayor and city council. Asked if I could come back later. I had to open the Chamber so told her I would.”

I blew out a breath. This was a fine pickle. I was convinced of Maybelle's innocence, but McBride would be a hard sell without evidence to back up her claim.

“You've got to help me, Piper.” Maybelle broke down in a fresh bout of weeping.

I promised to do what I could, but with all the crying going on I'm not sure whether she heard me or not.

*   *   *

“We need to look through Butch's old yearbooks. ASAP,” I said the instant Reba Mae answered her phone.

“Sure, but what's the rush?”

“Maybelle's alibi is gone with the wind. Somebody—probably the same jerk who helped himself to my petty cash—made off with her wallet while she was busy helping a tourist.”

“Oh no,” Reba Mae groaned. “That's terrible. How she holdin' up?”

“Not well,” I said. “That's why we need to look for possible suspects—other than Maybelle. Do you have plans for this evening?”

“Free as a breeze. Wally's doin' paperwork tonight, but he's invited both of us for dinner at Felicity's Friday night. He claims to be quite a cook and wants to show off.”

“Count me in. Maybe we can persuade Felicity to give us a guided tour of her bed-and-breakfast. I've been dying to see what she's done with the place. Don't bother fixing dinner. I'll bring Chinese.” I disconnected.

Half an hour later, I arrived on Reba Mae's doorstep toting a large paper sack from Ming Wah. “Hope you're hungry,” I said, plunking the bag down on the kitchen table.

“Famished,” she replied, taking wineglasses from the cupboard. While I unpacked a series of waxed containers, Reba Mae brought out a bottle of chilled pinot grigio and poured us each a glass. “Butch's yearbooks were in the attic exactly where I thought they were. Are we lookin' for anythin' specific or just want to make fun of the crazy hairdos?”

I divided the wonton soup into bowls while Reba Mate got out silverware. “Tempting as that may be,” I said, “I have something different it mind—albeit a long shot.”

“I'm all ears.”

I heaped plates with sweet-and-sour pork, egg rolls, and rice, and we dug in. “Becca Dapkins never would have won the Miss Congeniality award if she was the only contestant.”

“Sing it, sister.” Reba Mae speared a chunk of sweet-and-sour. “Hell's bells, Becca wouldn't even be runner-up.”

“Since we're assuming Maybelle's innocent, we need to look elsewhere for the perp. Think outside the box, so to speak. Ask ourselves who might've wanted Becca dead.”

Reba Mae scooped up a forkful of rice. “Think how many folks she might've ticked off at her job with the water department alone. She could've added late charges to water and sewer bills. Late charges add up in a hurry. Or worse yet, she could've had someone's water shut off.”

“Good point, but I thought we'd start with the obvious and work from there.” I opened a packet of soy sauce and drizzled it over my rice. “Normally the number one suspect is the vic's husband or boyfriend. According to McBride, however, Buzz Oliver has an ironclad alibi. So the question is: Who else had it in for Becca?”

Reba Mae took a sip of wine. “You're assumin' Becca's murder wasn't a random act of violence. Not a robbery gone wrong. Who's to say Becca didn't resist when some creep tried robbin' her—and she died as a result?”

I tucked an errant curl behind my ear. “As hard as I try, Reba Mae, I can't shake the feeling that Becca was attacked in her own home.”

Reba Mae scraped the last piece of pork from the carton. “Don't get your panties in a twist, hon. I'm just saying, is all.”

I topped off my wine, needing time to think more than I needed the wine. “I keep remembering the broken fingernail we found in Becca's kitchen. Knowing how vain she was, I'm certain she'd never leave the house without repairing it. Then there were the missing rubber gloves and empty Clorox jug. How many TV shows have you seen where a killer cleans up a crime scene with bleach?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“And another thing's been bothering me.” I sat straighter and leaned forward. “I didn't notice any sign of forced entry, did you? No busted locks, no broken windows. If my theory is right, it means Becca probably knew her killer and let him—or her—into her house.”

Reba Mae shuddered dramatically. “That's downright scary. Are you gonna tell me where Butch's high school yearbooks fit into the picture? Or keep me guessin'?”

“Barbara Bunker Quinlan,” I said slowly and succinctly. “Becca and Barbie hated each other. Too bad you missed the fireworks the day Barbie pulled into town. Becca called Barbie ‘trailer trash' and asked if she'd worked as a stripper. For a minute or so, I thought there was going to be a catfight in the middle of my shop. Why, just yesterday Barbie declared Becca a bitch and said the world was better off without her.”

“That still doesn't explain why you want to pore through musty ol' yearbooks.”

I idly broke open a fortune cookie. “It's a long shot, I know, but I hope it will give me a little more … insight … into Barbie's character.”

“Okay then, let's get to it. But first”—Reba Mae grinned—“I want to see what's inside my fortune cookie.”

I raised a brow when she burst into laughter. “Care to share?”

“‘A new pair of shoes will do you a world of good.' How perfect is that?” she asked. “Now read yours.”

“‘A conclusion is simply the place where you got tired of thinking.' Mine's even more perfect,” I said with a grin. “Ready or not, yearbooks here we come.”

We quickly cleared the table and loaded the dishwasher. Wineglasses in hand, we adjourned to the living room, where four yellowed and dusty yearbooks awaited our perusal on the coffee table.