Kill 'Em with Cayenne (24 page)

“Need help?” Lindsey joined me.

“Sure,” I said, handing her a dish towel. “I'll wash; you dry.”

She made a face but didn't mutiny. “Ms. Quinlan called while you were out.”

I squirted liquid detergent into a small sink and turned on the tap. Although Lindsey was valiantly trying to rein in her excitement, I could see she was bursting at the seams to tell me her news. “Did Ms. Quinlan state what she wanted?”

“She wanted to ask you if it would be all right if she and Carter came by after lunch to shoot a segment for her show. How exciting is that!” Lindsey squealed. “Isn't that the most amazing thing ever?”

Amazing?
My daughter and I differ when it comes to choosing adjectives. I rinsed a plate and handed it to her to dry. “Mm, sweetie, I'm not sure I'm ready for my TV debut.”

She gaped at me. “How can you
not
be ‘ready'? This is the most fabulous thing to have ever happened to Brandywine Creek. Just think, Mom, you'll be famous! Spice It Up! will be famous!”

Spice It Up! famous?
I rinsed a coffee mug under the tap. “I don't know.…”

“Oh, come on, Mom. It'll be a blast!”

Lindsey looked so flushed and happy at the prospect that I set my reservations aside. “Fine,” I said. “It would be foolish to turn down a chance for free publicity. After all, it's not as if I'm going to be talking in front of a huge audience. I'm perfectly capable of handling a one-on-one conversation.”

“Awesome!” Beaming, Lindsey practically did a happy dance.

I rinsed out the thermos. “Does she expect me to call her back?”

“That isn't necessary.” Lindsey draped the dish towel over a hook to dry. “I told her you'd be happy to do an interview.”

“Pretty sure of yourself, weren't you?!” I drained the water from the sink.

“Turn around,” Lindsey ordered. “Let me look at you.”

I obeyed, both puzzled and amused.

Narrowing her eyes, she looked me over from top to bottom. “You might want to change clothes.”

“Why?” I asked, glanced down at my ladybug capris. “What's wrong with what I've got on?”

“Amber says the best way to stand out from the crowd is to wear a color that pops. Navy blue doesn't ‘pop.'”

“Pop…?” I laughed. “Are you saying I should aspire to look like a bowl of cereal?”

Lindsey gave me a blank stare. “Is that a joke of some sort?”

“Snap, crackle, pop! Remember the Rice Krispie Treats I used to make for you and Chad?” From Detroit, Battle Creek, Michigan, otherwise known as Cereal City, was a straight shot down I-94. Guess my Yankee roots were showing, but I'd birthed Southerners.

“You need to get busy, Mom. We don't have much time for a makeover.”

“Makeover?” My voice rose. “Why do I need a makeover?”

“Amber said first impressions are important.” Lindsey tilted her head to one side and studied me. “I bet if you ask Miz Johnson, all nice and polite, she'd squeeze you in. Do something with your hair.”

My hand flew up to brush an unruly curl off my brow. “My hair? I like my hair. It's fine the way it is.”

“It's just so … curly … and wild. It needs to be styled. And,” Lindsey continued, unfazed by my outburst, “I bet Miz Johnson would loan you earrings, dangly or sparkly ones. She has the coolest jewelry. One last thing, Mom. You need to apply more foundation to hide those freckles.” She dug into her apron pocket and pulled out her iPhone. “I have to call Taylor. She'll freak when she hears Carter's filming us.”

I stared after her as she went to the back of the storeroom where I couldn't overhear her conversation. Apparently, in my daughter's estimation, my appearance was sorely lacking. My clothes didn't “pop”; my hair was wild and unruly. I didn't hide my freckles and, what's more, I had a lame sense of humor. Truly her father's daughter. I was a wreck and hadn't even realized it. What's a mother to do?

Once I explained my dilemma, Reba Mae offered to come to my rescue. She said she'd make an exception in my case and make one of her rare house calls. She'd be there within the hour.

I'd barely hung up when Melly entered Spice It Up! toting a large cardboard box. I rushed over to take it from her. “Gracious, Melly. What do you have in here? Bricks?”

“A complete tea set.” She brushed dust from her hands. “Must I remind you, dear, that I promised to bring teacups so you didn't have to serve your customers refreshments out of tacky Styrofoam.”

“Must've slipped my mind.” I set the box on the counter and peeked at the items wrapped in newspaper. “You really shouldn't have gone to all this trouble.”

“No bother.” She unwrapped a delicate china cup. “CJ's father and I received this set as a wedding present from his aunt Agatha but never used it. Agatha, bless her heart, had absolutely no taste. I swear the woman was color-blind.”

I removed a second cup. Melly wasn't the only one questioning Agatha's taste. The bone china was decorated in a garish floral pattern awash in blues and purples. If that weren't enough, the wide gold band around the rim proclaimed these babies needed to be hand washed and dried.

“It's very generous of you, Melly, but I simply can't accept family heirlooms.” Rewrapping and replacing the cup, I shoved the box in her direction.

Melly shoved it back in mine. “No, dear, I insist. I've held on to these much too long as it is.”

Smiling thinly, I nudged the tea set toward her when inspiration struck. “Why, Melly, the tea set is an heirloom. I think you should give it to Amber and CJ when they get married.”

“Hmm.” Melly's hand rested on the box. “Perhaps you're right, dear. Agatha always did have a soft spot for CJ.”

I heaved a sigh of relief. “Good, that settles it. As soon as Lindsey's off the phone, I'll have her carry the box out to your car.”

“No sense holding on to things. I still have my mother-in-law's china as well as my mother's. At my age, a person can only use so many tea sets.” She frowned and then brightened. “But never fear, I intend to make good on my promise. I'll raid my cupboards and find a few mismatched cups and saucers that ought to be good enough for your little store.”

“Hey, Meemaw.” Lindsey, her phone call concluded, greeted her grandmother with a hug. “Did Mom tell you she's going to be on TV?”

“No, dear,” Melly said with a tight-lipped smile. “She's been holding out on me.”

I shot Lindsey a see-what-you've-done-now look. “It's no big deal.”

“I beg to differ,” Melly corrected me. “It is a ‘big deal.' It's not every day that a family member—make that ‘former family member'—makes a television appearance.”

“Barbie Quinlan is going to interview Mom for
Some Like It Hot
. Isn't that awesome?”

Melly turned her full attention on me. “Certainly you're not wearing what you have on, are you? And your hair,” she continued, before I had a chance to answer, “well, perhaps Reba Mae can work a miracle.”

“Sweetie, would you please carry this box out to your grandmother's car?”

Melly didn't take the hint that it was time to leave. “Piper, you'll need help while you're being interviewed. What time do you want me to return?”

“Really, Melly, that isn't necessary. I wouldn't dream of imposing.”

“Nonsense.” Melly dismissed my objection with a flick of her wrist. “I wouldn't dream of not being here when you're in dire need. After all, that's what families are for. Now I must run home and find something to wear. Something bright, something that pops. I think my blue silk blouse might be just the ticket. Folks always say it brings out the blue in my eyes. And I need to reapply my makeup—you too, dear. Bright camera lights cause one to appear washed-out and sickly.” She was at the door when she turned and asked, “Do you suppose Reba Mae could fit me in? I want my hair to look especially nice when my friends watch the show.”

“I'll ask,” I replied, tempted to imitate Lindsey and roll my eyes. Unbelievable! Wardrobe, makeup, hair. Hollywood calling?

Lindsey was useless the remainder of the morning, alternating between peering at her reflection in a mirror and giggling on the phone. Shortly before noon, I sent her to the post office on an errand. When she offered to take Casey with her, I cheerfully shooed them both out the door.

I thought I'd fill the time before my makeover by sprucing up my shop. Grabbing a feather duster, I set to work. I might not “pop,” but Spice It Up! would. High on adrenaline, I was making progress when Doug Winters wandered in. I felt my pulse kick at the sight of him. “Hey, Doug.” I set my duster aside to greet him. “What brings you into town the middle of the day? Did you run out of helpless puppies and kittens to spay and neuter?”

That brought a smile. “My last owner got cold feet. She decided to breed her Corgi one last time before taking the plunge. I thought since Lindsey was working today, I'd invite you out for lunch. Afterward, I thought we might practice a few dance steps.”

Uh-oh. Busted
. “Dance steps?” I echoed. “Sorry, but I've been too preoccupied trying to prove Maybelle's innocence to give the shag contest much thought.”

“No problem, pretty lady, you're about to get lesson number one.” Doug took hold of my hand before I could object. “When doing the shag, keep in mind that eight words equal eight steps. One-and-two, three-and-four, five, six.”

I watched in amazement as he proceeded to demonstrate the basics. His movements were slick as ice. The man possessed slippery feet and rubbery knees. Who knew Fred Astaire was reincarnated in the guise of a mild-mannered veterinarian?

Doug ended the demo by twirling me under his arm in a dance move that left me dizzy. I wondered if it was the shag or the man himself who made me feel that way.

I'd forgotten I had work to do until my gaze chanced to fall on the feather duster I'd carelessly tossed aside. I quickly reclaimed my hand from Doug's and hurried to retrieve the duster. “You've distracted me long enough. I have to finish cleaning.”

Doug looked crestfallen at my abrupt defection. “Can't you postpone your housekeeping chores till later? The longer you wait, the more dust that'll collect. That means you can collect twice the dust in half the amount of time. My way's more efficient.”

“What…?” I paused, feather duster in hand. “Did you just make that up?”

He grinned sheepishly. “Guilty as charged.”

“Mind if I take a rain check?” I swept the duster over jars filled with vanilla beans and cinnamon sticks. “Barbie's coming to film me for a segment of
Some Like It Hot.
Between now and then I have to get this place shipshape, change clothes, tame my hair, hide my freckles, and find dangly earrings.”

“Hey,” he said, snatching my duster and kissing the tip of my nose, “no need for drastic measures. I, for one, happen to like your freckles.”

I felt my cheeks warm at the compliment, but determined to finish my task, I grabbed the cleaning tool away from him. “I should lecture you on keeping the Pit Crew working till the wee hours,” I said, referring to Lindsey coming home past her curfew.

“Sorry. I didn't realize ten o'clock was too late.”

I dropped the feather duster. “Ten?”

He retrieved it and handed it to me. “Why? Anything wrong?”

“No, no. Nothing wrong,” I managed. “Sorry about lunch. Another time?”

When I was alone, my mind shifted into overdrive. If Lindsey had finished at Doug's by ten, three hours were unaccounted for. I made a mental note to sit her down, find out what was going on. Though she hadn't specifically said she'd been at Doug's the entire time, she had certainly led me to believe that's where she'd been.

My maternal antenna twitched like crazy.

 

C
HAPTER
26

M
Y CLEANING SPREE
finished, I was besieged with a fresh set of worries. Maybe I should go all out and serve refreshments when Barbie and her shaggy-haired cohort came to film.
Tea and crumpets?
I wondered. Problem was I didn't know exactly what a crumpet was—and didn't have time to find out. I made a mental note to Google them later.

I'd just returned downstairs after putting away the dishes I'd used that morning to bribe—I meant feed—McBride when the front door of the shop swung open. Reba Mae, carrying a large duffel bag, barreled toward me. Dropping the duffel, she caught me in a bear hug. “Honeybun, you're gonna be ready for your close-up by the time I'm done with you.”

I carefully extricated myself from her exuberant embrace. “Everyone's making this into a big deal. Barbie's going to ask a few questions; I'm going to give a few answers. Piece of cake, right?”

“Make mine a slice of Red Velvet loaded down with creamcheese icing.” Steering me over to the stool behind the counter, she gave me a gentle push. “Hush now, and let Aunt Reba work her magic.”

I took the cowardly route and complied. “For all I know, this could end up on the cutting room floor.” I had no idea of the accuracy of this statement, but I'd heard celebrities complain about this sort of thing on
The Tonight Show
.”

Reba Mae reached into her bag and pulled out an arsenal of styling tools. Some, like a curling iron and hair straightener, I recognized from watching Lindsey primp, but others looked like holdovers from the Inquistion. “Most folks would give their firstborn to be in your shoes,” Reba Mae said as she set an industrial-size can of hair spray next to a series of brushes.

“I'll gladly donate my favorite stilettos.”

“Don't look a gift horse in the mouth,” she scolded. “This will be great publicity for Spice It Up!” Head tipped to one side, she took a step back and studied me. “Looks like I've got my work cut out for me.”