Kill 'Em with Cayenne (22 page)

“Way I figure, Barbie must've been in the same class as Butch. McBride and CJ were a couple years ahead of them.”

I picked up the book on top. “Let's start with Butch's freshman year and work our way from there.”

Reba Mae and I sat side by side on the sofa, flipping through the pages, exclaiming over the hairstyles and fashions. Her lips curved in a wistful smile at seeing photos of Butch in his football uniform, his helmet tucked in the crook of his arm, a big grin on his face.

“The boys remind me of their dad,” I said.

There were other familiar faces, too. Wyatt McBride, member of both the varsity football squad and softball team, stared squarely into the camera's lens. CJ, president of his class, smiled confidently into the camera. But in the space Barbie's freshman photo should have occupied was the notation “Unavailable.”

Reba Mae opened Butch's sophomore yearbook. “Here's to better luck this time.”

More photos of Butch, McBride, and CJ. Senior year, McBride had been quarterback and captain of varsity football. CJ had again been elected class president and been voted homecoming king. I'd almost given up finding anything of value when I spotted the person I'd hoped to find.

“There she is!” I cried, pointing at a girl half-hidden in the second row of girls from the Future Homemakers club.

“You sure?” Reba Mae squinted for a better look. “She looks totally different.”

“There's her name. It's her all right.” I looked long and hard at the unsmiling teen with drab, stringy hair. She looked unhappy, awkward. Barbie bore little resemblance to the bombshell she was today. “Except for those spooky eyes of hers, I don't think I'd have recognized her.”

“Look at the girl standing next to her.” Reba Mae jabbed the page with her index finger. “The book gives her name as Claudia McBride. Must be Wyatt's sister.”

I drew the book closer for a better look. Claudia and her brother shared a strong family resemblance. Same dark hair, high cheekbones. I couldn't tell from the photo, but I'd bet she had the same electric-blue eyes.

“Does Wyatt ever mention her?”

“A time or two. From the little he's said, I gather she's living somewhere in California. I don't think they're close.”

By her senior year, Barbie had undergone a metamorphosis. Though still unsmiling, she'd developed a knockout figure with full breasts, trim waist, and slender hips. And, according to a photo showing members of the National Honor Society, she was also smart.

While it was all very interesting, I still hadn't found anything that would explain the animosity between Becca and the much younger Barbie. Or anything that would connect the two women. I was about to snap the yearbook closed when my eyes fell upon a page with a banner titled
STAFF AND FACULTY.
There, staring back at me, was the answer to my questions. I'd found the missing link.

I was barely able to contain my excitement. “Reba Mae, do you see what I see?”

“Jeez Louise!” she breathed, peering over my shoulder.

“‘Arthur Dapkins, Assistant Principal,'” I read. “‘Becca Ferguson, School Secretary.'”

We looked at each other, then down at the photos again. “Becca née Ferguson Dapkins,” we said in perfect two-part harmony.

I sat back to digest this tidbit. The plot thickened. Becca, it seemed, had worked in the school office the whole time CJ, McBride, Butch, and Barbie were students.
Hmm …

 

C
HAPTER
23

A
FTER LEAVING
R
EBA
Mae's, I didn't feel like going home to an empty apartment. Instead, I procrastinated by looping around the square several times, then repeated the performance by driving around the block. I even drove past Maybelle's house to see if she was “home alone” and spotted her Honda in the carport. For a split second, I toyed with the notion of stopping, seeing if she was in the mood for company, but decided against it.

Next, I considered joining Doug and his Pit Crew at Pets 'R People for chatter and companionship. When I'd called earlier to schedule Casey's nip and tuck, Doug had mentioned he was making his team New York–style pizza—complete with New York–style pizza dough and homemade sauce. Yummo! Alas, I was too full to eat another bite, yet too weak not to give in to temptation. Rather than cruise around aimlessly—or consume extra calories—I elected to take a walk.

Upon hearing my key in the lock, Casey seconded the motion. His tail swished back and forth like a metronome when I reached for his leash. Together we strolled down Main Street; then on a whim I turned down a side street. We veered away from the business district into a residential area populated with well-maintained older homes, my ex-mother-in-law's among them.

The balmy night was a gentle caress against my skin. The temperature warm, but without the heat of the day. The high-pitched melody of cicadas was occasionally punctuated by the trumpet of tree frogs. A full moon hung suspended from a blue-black canopy pinpricked by thousands—maybe millions—of tiny stars. A perfect night for sitting on a porch swing. For holding hands and sharing secrets.

A night for lovers. Times like this I longed for porch swings, hand-holding … and intimacy. Casey, oblivious to my mood, lifted his leg and watered a crepe myrtle.

Though it was still relatively early, not yet ten o'clock, I was surprised to find lights still burning in Melly's windows. I was about to pass quietly, but Casey had other ideas. Straining on the leash and yapping his silly head off, he tugged me toward the walk leading to Melly's front porch.

“Hush, boy! Quiet!”

My admonition had little effect. Before I could silence him, Melly appeared in the doorway, her figure backlit by light from the foyer. Opening the door a crack, she peeked out.

“Piper, dear, is that you?” she called.

The porch light flashed on, its beam strong enough to illuminate half the neighborhood. No energy-saving bulbs for her, no sirree, Bob.

“See what you've done,” I hissed at Casey, who seemed immune to my scolding. “Hey, Melly,” I said, stepping closer.

“What brings you out wandering this time of night?”

“I'm just taking Casey out for a spin.”

“Well, why don't the two of you come in? Sit a spell.”

“I don't want to be a bother,” I said, trying to find an excuse but failing abysmally.

“Nonsense,” she pooh-poohed, holding open the door. “I was about to have a cup of herbal tea. I made a batch of gingersnaps today,” she added, taking unfair advantage of my weakness.

“All right then, but we won't stay long.”

Casey trotted up the walk ahead of me as though he owned the place. Melly held up one hand, stopping me as I started to fasten his leash to a leg of a porch chair. “Don't bother, dear. He's welcome inside. Your little pet is always on his best behavior whenever Lindsey brings him to visit. Besides, he knows if he's a good boy I have treats for him. Make yourselves comfy while I get the refreshments.”

“You little beggar,” I scolded when Melly left for the kitchen. “No wonder you started barking and refused to budge.”

Unabashed, Casey sat at my feet, a semblance of a smile on his furry little face.

It had been a while since I'd been inside Melly's home. Except for the presence of a flat-screen television that took up half a wall, nothing seemed to have changed. The large screen reminded me of the one at Becca's. Apparently the women shared a passion for watching television.

Melly returned carrying a tray set with a pretty rose-patterned tea set, hand-embroidered linen napkins, and a plate of cookies, which she set on the coffee table. She looked different, I mused; then it dawned on me. She was dressed more casually than usual in a flowered cotton top, pale-blue capris, and, of course, her pearls.

“It's nice to have company. Evenings can be lonely.” After handing Casey a doggie biscuit, she poured tea into porcelain cups.

“Yes, they can be,” I agreed. Maybe I should suggest the formation of a lonely hearts club. Reba Mae could be the reigning president, Melly and Maybelle charter members. It could lead to all sorts of … interesting … exchanges. Thank goodness the presence of Doug Winters in my life saved me from such a membership. Once the BBQ festival was over, I planned to make sure we spent more time together. I helped myself to a gingersnap. “I hope we're not keeping you up past your bedtime.”

“Good gracious, no. I've become somewhat of a night owl these past couple years.” Always the epitome of well-bred Southern womanhood, she daintily spread a napkin across her lap.

We sipped and nibbled in companionable silence while Casey lounged contentedly on the floor at my feet. I had to admit Melly really did make the best gingersnaps ever. I liked to think they were even better since she started using Spice It Up! spices exclusively. Ginger, cinnamon, and cloves. I'd finally convinced her to toss out all her old tins and buy fresher spices in smaller quantities. She'd even begun to purchase whole nutmegs grown in Grenada and grate them herself for maximum flavor.

I happened to glance into the adjoining dining room. Instead of the Victorian soup tureen that had always occupied pride of place on the Queen Anne–style table, there was a sleek state-of-the-art laptop.

Melly followed the direction of my gaze. “Solitaire,” she said. “I like to play solitaire.” Jumping up so quickly her napkin fell to the carpet, she hurried to the computer and snapped it shut.

“Solitaire's fun,” I said, puzzled by her strange behavior. Was Melly keeping secrets? If she'd started Internet dating like Maybelle Humphries, I wanted to be the last to know. “I read a recent magazine article that said games are a good way for seniors to keep the minds sharp. To stave off dementia.”

“Mmm.” Melly replaced her napkin on her lap and sipped her tea.

I wondered if the day had come for
me
to take preventative measures to ward off memory loss. I could start small, maybe buy a book of crossword puzzles or Sudoku. Lessen my odds by regularly watching American's favorite quiz show,
Jeopardy!
Keep track of the number of times I won the final round.

I drew one leg up under the other and snuggled more comfortably into the corner of the sofa. “Melly, you've lived your entire life in Brandywine Creek. How well did you know Becca Dapkins?”

“Becca…?” Melly's hand flew to her throat to fiddle with her pearls. “Why?”

I would've thought the interest obvious. After all, Casey, my trusty sidekick, and I were the ones who found Becca sprawled in the azaleas. “Curious is all,” I said with a casual shrug. “Just trying to make sense out of what happened.”

“I'm not one to speak ill of the dead, but…”

“… but?”

“Becca Dapkins was a vile, mean-spirited woman is all.”

So much for not speaking ill of the dead,
I thought. I swirled the tea in my cup, careful not to spill a drop, knowing Melly would send me the cleaning bill. “I confess, I didn't know her all that well, but she just never struck me as being a happy person.”

“Becca was never happy unless she got her own way. She was like that even as a girl.”

“So you've known her a long time.”

Melly picked a crumb from her napkin. “Becca Ferguson Dapkins came to live with her grandmother in Brandywine Creek when she was barely into her teens. Both the girl's parents had been killed tragically in an automobile accident somewhere up north. Philadelphia or maybe Baltimore. Her grandmother did her duty best she could, but she wasn't the affectionate sort.”

I felt a pang of sympathy for a newly orphaned adolescent at the mercy of an indifferent relative. “It must have been a hard adjustment for a young girl.”

“If it was, you'd never know to look at her. In no time flat, Becca seemed to take charge. She was the ringleader. Cheerleading captain. Homecoming princess. I don't think many girls were brave enough to stand up to her and risk being an outcast. Girls at that age can be vicious, underhanded.”

“What about Maybelle? Weren't she and Becca classmates?”

“Maybelle always seemed content doing her own thing. She was the studious type and, to my knowledge, never seemed to mind not being part of the inner circle.”

“What became of Becca after she graduated from high school?” I asked. “Did she go on to college?”

“Her grandmother didn't have that kind of money. Unfortunately, Becca's studies came in a poor third behind pretty and popular. Since she didn't qualify for a scholarship, she had to find a job.”

I recalled her photo as school secretary. “She found a position with Brandywine Creek schools.”

Melly raised a brow. “I'm surprised you know this. It was well before you married my son and came to live in Brandywine Creek.”

Leaning over, I set my cup on the coffee table. I snatched another gingersnap in the process. “Reba Mae unearthed Butch's old high school yearbooks in the attic. Becca was school secretary during the time CJ and McBride were students.”
And Barbara Bunker,
I almost added.

“That's correct. It wasn't long after that Becca got herself engaged to that nice young assistant principal, Arthur Dapkins.”

I brushed crumbs from my capris, which Casey, now awake, lapped up with the alacrity of a Dyson vacuum cleaner. “Funny, but I was under the impression the newlyweds didn't stay in Brandywine Creek very long.”

“Shortly after their wedding, Arthur received an offer to be a high school principal in another state. I'm afraid I lost track of the couple until their divorce several years ago, when Becca moved back to live in the house her grandmother left her.”

“Any idea what led to their divorce?”

“Just one of those things.” Melly spread her hands. “I suspect Becca wasn't an easy woman to live with and Arthur had had enough. Jolene Tucker said Art joined the Peace Corps after the divorce. Told folks he wanted to get as far away from Becca as possible. I believe he's in Thailand. Couples grow apart, as you well know.”