Kill 'Em with Cayenne (25 page)

With a sigh, I surrendered. No sense charging headlong into a losing battle.

*   *   *

Strike up the band. Bring on the piccolos, flutes, oboes, and bassoons. Barbie's arrival in her shiny white Cadillac had all the fanfare of a presidential motorcade or papal visit. More townspeople than usual, everyone dressed in their finest Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes in case they were caught on camera, leisurely strolled along Main Street. All pretense of window-shopping, however, vanished the instant Barbie Bunker Quinlan, aka Barbie Q, stepped foot on the pavement. They flocked around the platinum blonde and Carter Kincaid, aka the cute video guy, like flies to a summer picnic.

Barbie smiled graciously at her adoring public, then headed into my shop. The crowd parted in her wake with an alacrity that would have impressed Moses.
Sheesh!
I thought.
How would people react if it really was someone important? Like the president. Or the pope.

Barbie stood on the threshold and whipped off her movie star–large sunglasses. She looked every bit the diva in a silky turquoise top and formfitting black jeans. Her blond hair fell loosely around her shoulders, her makeup flawless.

Melly sidled up behind me and nudged me in the ribs. “Don't just stand there like a ninny. Say something,” she hissed.

Her admonition freed me from my momentary paralysis. I surreptitiously wiped sweaty palms on my apron. “Hello, Barbie,” I said, my smile stiff.

“I don't believe I've met your sales staff,” Barbie said, eyeing Melly and Lindsey, who hovered nearby.

“This is my daughter, Lindsey,” I said, belatedly recalling my manners. “And this is Melly Prescott.”

Barbie's eyes were hard and bright as aquamarines. “Melly Prescott? CJ's mother?”

Melly beamed with pleasure. “How nice that you remember my son.”

“Even though we weren't in the same class, I remember him quite well,” Barbie replied in a tone frosty enough to chill champagne.

It was clear to me, if not Melly, that Barbie's memories of CJ weren't fond ones. Fortunately, just then Carter Kincaid, weighted down with electrical cables and a huge video camera, shouldered his way through the door.

Giving her hair a toss, Barbie slipped on an invisible cloak of professionalism. “While Carter's setting up I'll have Lindsey and Mrs. Prescott sign waivers. Standard procedure,” she explained, taking forms from her leather tote bag. “These grant
Some Like It Hot
permission to use any and all footage not only when the segment is aired but for promos.”

I smiled to myself at the sight of Melly and Lindsey scrambling to find pens and write their signatures. Celebrities for a day. Wish I shared their enthusiasm. Instead I felt as nervous as a cat in a room full of rocking chairs.

“Aha!” Carter exclaimed suddenly. I watched him plug a mile of thick black cable into an electrical outlet. “That ought to do it. Keep your fingers crossed, everyone. Not all old buildings can handle the demand for this much juice.”

I felt obligated to defend my “old building.” “Even though this place dates back to Prohibition, I had it rewired to meet code when I bought it.”

He continued to look doubtful as he clipped a small microphone to the bib of my apron.

“Listen up, ladies,” Barbie barked. “Let me tell you what I expect. When the camera pans the shop, I'd like you, Mrs. Prescott—Melly Prescott—to remain in front of the counter. Act as though you're a customer. Do you think you can handle that?”

“My dear,” Melly bristled, “I'll have you know I've been a ‘customer' the better part of my life. That makes me eminently qualified for this little charade.”

Ignoring the jibe, Barbie turned to Lindsey. “Lindsey, I want you to pretend you're making a sale. Be sure to smile.”

Lindsey grinned as if to demonstrate. “Got it.”

Now it was my turn to be on the receiving end of Barbie's transition to drill sergeant. “Piper, pay attention!” she snapped. “Carter is going to pan your shop while I do an intro. If I'm not happy with it, I'll do a voice-over later. Next, I'll ask you a few simple questions. Nothing to worry about, I'm sure you'll do fine.”

“First off, I need to do sound and light checks,” Carter announced. He fastened a mike like the one I wore to the neckline of Barbie's top. Taking a gizmo out of his cargo pants, he held it in front of her. Satisfied, he turned to me. “Speak into this in your normal tone of voice.”

I did as directed and the gizmo's needle wobbled back and forth.

“Good,” he said, seeming pleased I'd passed the talk-into-a-mike test with flying colors. “Now hold still while I check you with the light meter.”

I did my rendition of a bug under a microscope while he scrutinized me from various angles from behind a handheld device. “Sorry, ma'am,” he said. “You're much too pale. You need more makeup. Try adding blush.”

While I dabbed on another layer of blush and foundation, Barbie and Carter conferred in hushed tones. At last Barbie beckoned me over.

Curtain time. Like Reba Mae said, a piece of cake. I knew spices like the back of my hand, inside and out, backward and forward. I could speak for hours about their countries of origin, harvesting, and their different uses. I practically had a Ph.D. in spiceology. A simple interview. Nothing to get my panties into a twist about.

Carter donned a headset, then hoisted the camera to his shoulder. “Camera, sound, action!” he shouted.

My gaze flew wide. For the first time, I noticed that a crowd had gathered on the sidewalk outside my front window. Dottie Hemmings and Ned Feeney were in the front row, their noses pressed against the glass. Ned gave me his lopsided grin; Dottie signaled thumbs-up.

“Hey, y'all,” Barbie drawled for the benefit of the camera, her voice sweet as a Georgia peach. She went into a brief but concise account of what was about to take place during the barbecue festival, then turned to me. “Let me introduce Piper Prescott, the charming proprietor of Spice It Up!, a quaint little spice shop I happened to stumble upon. Her shop is located on Main Street in Brandywine Creek, Georgia, right across from a picturesque town square where a body was recently discovered.”

Body?
I didn't know bodies were going to be discussed.

“Piper, would you explain to our viewers why you believed a tiny specialty store would prosper in a town with only two stoplights. I bet many of its citizens thought you were crazy when they heard your plan.”

“I … ah…” I ran the tip of my tongue over my lips, which were suddenly dry. “I'm certain some thought I'd lost my marbles, but I'm happy to report most changed their minds once they realized the amazing difference fresh spices bring to their family's favorites.”

“Still, Piper, you must admit it was a gutsy move for a recently divorced woman who'd never worked a day in her life.”

“N-never worked…,” I stammered. Who the heck did she think she was talking to? Did she labor under the delusion that I spent most of my life watching soap operas and eating bonbons? I made a mental note to add “bonbons” to my Google search along with “crumpets.” Taking a calming breath, I regained a degree of equanimity. “Do you have children?” I asked, keeping my tone pleasant with effort.

“No, I don't.”

“Didn't think so.” I smiled into the camera. “Raising children is the most important—and the most difficult—task a woman can ever undertake. I'm certain your women viewers will agree.”

“I didn't mean to imply otherwise.” A telltale pink seeped through the layers of Barbie's pancake makeup. “Allow me to rephrase. What I meant was that before starting your own business, you never held down a steady job.”

“I'm afraid you were misinformed, Barbie,” I said sweetly. “In the early days of my marriage, I worked two jobs to support my husband through law school. I worked as a hotel maid during the day and waited tables at night.”

Unable to hold her tongue an instant longer, Melly marched over. “I don't want folks to get the wrong impression,” she said, leaning into the microphone pinned to my apron. “For those of you who don't know me, I'm Melly Prescott, Piper's mother-in-law.”

“Ex-mother-in-law,” Barbie and I chorused.

Melly continued, undaunted, “As soon as my son CJ graduated law school—with honors, I might add—he insisted Piper quit work. He treated her like a queen. They even belonged to the country club. Unfortunately, Piper never did develop a decent backhand and boasted the highest handicap in the women's golf league.”

“Cut!” Barbie made a slashing motion across her throat, a signal for Carter to cease filming. “Mrs. Prescott, if you don't mind, I'd like to restrict this interview to just Piper and myself.”

Lindsey, her face crimson with embarrassment, scooted over, took her grandmother by the arm, and dragged her off into neutral territory.

“Let's get back to the subject at hand, shall we?” Barbie smiled brightly as filming resumed. “As the barbecue festival gets ready to fire up, could you tell us, Piper, which spices the contestants are clamoring for?”

Familiar territory at last. I inwardly heaved a sigh of relief. “Well, Barbie, as you know, all pitmasters are searching for the perfect degree of heat. Chili peppers, either ground or crushed, are by far my most popular items. They range from the mild chipotle to the fiery habanero.”

“Speaking of heat, I hear Brandywine Creek is experiencing plenty of heat these days but of a different sort. Sources tell me this picture-perfect little town is undergoing a serious crime spree.”

We'd gone off script—again. Unsure how I should respond, I let my gaze roam. In addition to the crush on the sidewalk, people filled the opened doorway. Reba Mae, Wally Porter at her side, gave me a finger wave and nod of encouragement. Bob Sawyer, reporter for
The Statesman
, was there, too, his Nikon at the ready for a photo op.

I cleared my throat. “I hardly consider having petty cash stolen a ‘crime spree,'” I answered, deliberately misinterpreting her.

“I referred to a crime of a more serious nature,” Barbie continued, shifting into in investigative reporter mode. “Kindly tell the audience what it's like to find the body of a woman who's been bludgeoned by—of all things—a brisket. How fitting”—she winked at the camera—“practically on the eve of Brandywine Creek's biggest tourist event of the year?”

“Quite frankly, my dear, it sucks.” I made the same throat-slashing motion I'd seen Barbie make earlier. “Interview's over.”

Filming came to an abrupt halt to a smattering of applause from the audience. Barbie didn't linger to have her picture taken or to sign autographs. If this interview had been a “piece of cake,” I'd have to describe the flavor as Devil's Food.

 

C
HAPTER
27

T
HE BLACK SNAKES
of cable had been coiled and stowed. The camera laid to rest in its foam carrying case. Barbie and Carter drove off muttering such things as “splicing” and “editing.” The show over, the crowd drifted away. Lindsey, Melly, and I had polished off the last of the gingersnaps Melly had supplied.

“Mom, I promised Amber I'd tell her all about the taping. She invited me to spend the night—if it's okay with you.” Lindsey brushed crumbs from the shorts she'd changed into after the “cute video guy” left. “She's scared to spend the night alone in that big house of Daddy's with a murderer on the loose.”

I guess Lindsey didn't stop to consider her defection would leave her poor mother alone and unprotected “with a murderer on the loose.” Bending down, I picked up Casey, who had whisked the floor clean of errant cookie crumbs. “Don't worry about me being alone, sweetie,” I said, making no effort to hide the sarcasm. “I'll be just fine with my trusty guard dog at my side.”

“Maybe I should get a dog,” Melly mused. “A big one with a loud bark.”

Lindsey and I stared at Melly in amazement. Was she serious? I'd never thought of my former mother-in-law as a pet owner. She smiled at seeing our expressions. “Why the looks?” she asked. “I always wanted a dog, but CJ and his father always claimed they were allergic. It's never too late.…”

Lindsey brightened. “I'll let Doc know you're in the market for a pet. He said lots of times a client's dog has an unplanned litter. Big ones, small ones. All kinds of breeds to chose from.”

Melly reached over and patted Casey on the head. “I was thinking more along the line of the Humane Society. A rescue dog like your mother's.”

I couldn't help but smile at Melly's remark. I may not have a decent backhand and I can't hit a golf ball to save my soul, but when it came to pets I'm an ace. “Lindsey,” I said, “you never mentioned your father being out of town.”

“Daddy's at a seminar on criminal law in Atlanta.”

“Criminal law?” I asked. “What happened to him suing folks for finding a dog hair in the Puppy Chow?”

“Daddy said he needed to expand his horizons. To follow the money trail.” Lindsey's phone played a tune telling her she'd just gotten a text. “So is it okay if I spend the night with Amber?”

“Fine.” I set Casey on the floor. “Aren't you scheduled to work at the animal clinic tomorrow?”

“Not until afternoon,” Lindsey replied absently, reading the message on her iPhone. “Doc's having a butt-rubbin' party tomorrow night.”

“Mercy!” Melly exclaimed. “A butt-rubbin' party? What's this world coming to?”

“Not that kind of butt rub, Meemaw.” Lindsey laughed and gave her grandmother a hug. “The butt—in this case—is the pork shoulder.”

“I knew that,” Melly sniffed. “A butt-rubbin ‘party just doesn't sound very ladylike, is all.”