Kill 'Em with Cayenne (28 page)

He led the way. I felt I'd entered a time warp. Cracked red and black linoleum, worn thin in spots, chipped gray Formica countertops, and antiques for appliances. A drop-leaf table, layered with yellowing paint, and two chairs that looked like garage sale castoffs completed the vintage look.

“I know it's not much.…”

“Not yet,” I agreed. “But think of the potential. All it needs is—”

“A ton of cash.” He dragged a hand through his hair.

“With a little imagination and the right budget, you'll get a big return on your initial investment.”

“Tell me you're not serious. You're beginning to sound like my Realtor.” Crossing to the fridge, he took out a package of ground beef.

“Let me make the patties while you start the grill.”

“My ‘grill' consists of the plug-in George Foreman variety. A gas grill is another item on my list.” He handed me the meat and rummaged through a cupboard for the George Foreman. “I lived in a furnished apartment in Miami. If I wanted a steak, I'd use the grill out back by the pool.”

I shaped the burgers while he set the table with inexpensive plastic dinnerware. “What do you have in the way of seasoning?” I asked.

“Will good old salt and pepper do?”

“They'll work just fine.” When the burgers began to sizzle, I sliced a couple tomatoes I found cowering behind a stack of mail.

“Precious brought in a whole sack of them. She said her brother has so many he can't give them away.”

“Nothing better than homegrown tomatoes,” I replied, arranging them on a plate.

McBride opened a bag of potato chips and set bag and all on the table. Brought out mustard and catsup. I still hadn't broached the subject I'd come to discuss. And felt oddly reluctant to do so. When our conversation shifted to the impending barbecue festival I leaped at the chance.

“Melly and I had a rather interesting conversation after Barbie finished filming.” I slid the burgers onto buns, put one on each plate, and sat down at the table.

Taking the chair opposite me, he squirted catsup on his burger and added a dollop of mustard and a slice of tomato. He nudged the bag of chips closer to me, a signal for me to help myself.

The man knew how to turn silence into a weapon, I thought grumpily, putting a handful of chips on my plate. “Melly said Barbie wasn't happy while growing up in Brandywine Creek. Said the kids teased her, made fun of her. That Barbie was the target of bullying.”

He raised a dark brow but waited for me to continue.

I broke off a small piece of my burger and fed it to Casey curled beneath my chair. “Melly remembered a certain vice principal took a special interest in the girl. Then, all sorts of vicious gossip started. Melly believes that the bullying and subsequent rumors were the reasons Barbie dropped out of school and left town.”

Finishing his burger, he folded his arms across his chest and leaned back. The legs of the chair creaked in protest. “And your point is…?”

He wasn't making things any easier, I realized with mounting frustration. “The vice principal was Arthur Dapkins. During this period, Becca Dapkins, née Ferguson, worked as the school secretary. According to Melly, Becca had set her cap for Art. She wanted him for herself and wasn't about to let some buxom high school student steal him away. We—Melly and I—think Becca started those rumors and Barbie knew it. I witnessed firsthand the animosity between the two women the day Barbie arrived in town.”

“And your point is…?”

“Stop repeating yourself,” I snapped. I gave Casey what was left of my burger, which I realized wasn't very much. I didn't even remember eating most of it. “My point is, Barbie had a motive for killing Becca.”

“Just because two women dislike each other doesn't necessarily equate with murder.”

I hated it when I came to him all fired up and he doused my conclusions with ice water. Now it was my turn to fold my arms. “Will you at least ask Barbie if she has an alibi for the night Becca was murdered? I tried,” I admitted, “but she threatened to call the police if I didn't leave.”

He got up from the table and, rummaging through a drawer, produced a half-eaten bag of Oreos. “Dessert?” he said, offering me some.

I took one. Reba Mae claimed chocolate helped her think. This was as good a time as any to test the theory. “You're the one enrolled in the motive, means, and opportunity school of police work. Becca Dapkins's reprehensible behavior destroyed the reputation of a young girl. Why not ask Barbie where she was the night Becca died?”

“Because I know where she was.”

I blinked. “You do? Where?”

“Barbie was in exactly the same spot you're sitting right now.”

“Here…?” I asked when I found my voice again. “In this chair?”

McBride stood, leaned against the chipped Formica counter, arms braced behind him, and looked me square in the eye. “Barbie dropped by when she first got into town. Stayed for a few beers. We sat around and reminisced.”

“I didn't realize you were that close.”
Why should the fact he and Barbie-Q-Perfect were “close” bother me?
I wondered. I channeled Scarlett O'Hara and told myself I'd worry about it tomorrow.

“Barbie and my sister, Claudia, were inseparable when they were growing up. I stepped in a time or two when kids picked on Barbie, and she remembered. She and my sister still keep in touch.”

“I see,” I said slowly. It wasn't a stretch to picture McBride as the protective older brother, coming to the aid of his sister's little friend. Even then he was living under the credo “to protect and serve.” My earlier irritation faded. “Thanks for dinner,” I said. “I don't want to overstay my welcome.”

“I'll walk you out.”

We paused in the drive while Casey watered the shrubbery. “Since you've blown my theory all to smithereens that must mean Maybelle still tops your list of suspects. You don't know the woman like I do, McBride. She's a gentle, caring soul, who'd give you the shirt off her back. She woulnd't hurt a fly.”

Darkness had fallen, making it hard to read his expression. Reaching out, he skimmed his thumb over the bridge of my nose and rubbed lightly. For a split second I thought he was going to kiss me. Did I want him to? Or didn't I? My reaction to Tall, Dark, and Lethal made me feel like I was cheating on sweet, dependable Dr. Doug.

“There,” McBride said, his voice humming with satisfaction. “The freckles are back just the way I like them.”

I stepped back, panicked and flustered. “If you're seriously thinking about renovating, I have a lot of ideas,” I said in a rush to regain my emotional moorings. “You might want to consider adding shutters and possibly flower boxes to the front of the house. Your hydrangeas need pruning, and you might want to do some replanting. Gardenias and holly are always nice.”

“Anything else?”

I hurried to the car, and Casey hopped inside. “Well, as for the interior, I'd knock down the wall separating the dining room from the kitchen and living room and go with an open concept.”

“No sweat. I'll get right on it with the aid of my trusty hammer.”

Still on a roll, I slid into the driver's side. “While you're at it, tear out that corner cabinet. It would be a great spot for a gas-log fireplace. You might also want to knock out the windows along the back wall and put in French doors. They'd look great leading out on to a deck with its new grill.”

“That's all?”

“For now.” I gave a friendly wave as I backed down the drive. The beam of my headlights showed him looking even more flummoxed than he had earlier. For some reason, which I didn't stop to examine, that gave me a distinct feeling of satisfaction.

 

C
HAPTER
30

N
OT MANY CARS
out at this hour. As I drove toward town, I tuned into a country-western station playing oldies. A female singer was lamenting that certain men cause good girls to go wrong. Wyatt McBride instantly came to mind. The man had a way of getting to me. With a look he made my tummy flutter. A touch made my toes curl. Tummy flutters and curling toes, as most women know, are unreliable predictors of compatibility. McBride spelled danger with a capital
D
.

And a capital
D
stood for “Doug.” Doug Winters was safe, sweet, and—another
d
word—dependable. Those were qualities I admired in a man. Not bare chests, weight-lifter abs, and cute dimples. I liked a man who knew his way around a kitchen. One who owned a grill that you didn't have to plug in. Who owned more tools than just a hammer.

I switched to one of Lindsey's favorite stations. I wished I could change my train of thoughts just as easily. Wyatt McBride obstinately stayed at the forefront. Specifically Wyatt and Barbie. I had to own up to the fact I felt a twinge of jealousy. They were consenting adults. Considering their history, it was understandable they'd spend time together. Perfectly natural they'd spend a night reminiscing. What a lucky happenstance for Barbie that none other than the chief of police himself could supply an alibi for the night her nemesis was bludgeoned to death.

Reaching over, I idly scratched Casey behind the ears. The pup opened one eye, then let it drift shut. I felt restless—a mood that struck me with increasing frequency these days. With Lindsey spending the night babysitting Amber, I wasn't in a hurry to return to an empty apartment. I cruised past the town square where a handful of people milled about in front of partially erected booths.

Though it was late by Brandywine Creek standards, it wasn't late in other parts of the world—or maybe even the next county over. Now was as good a time as any to check on Becca's beloved African violets. While I was at it, I'd box up a few to take with me. I'd keep the plants next to the register along with a sign:
FREE TO GOOD HOME.
Down deep, I hoped to find something—anything—that might lead to Becca's killer. I couldn't ignore the steadily increasing sense of urgency that time was running out

“Stay here, Casey. I'll be back in five,” I told him upon reaching the little bungalow.

I debated asking Reba Mae to meet me but remembered she and Wally were on a “date.” Over the past couple days, she must have reminded me a dozen times that we were to be Wally's guests at the Turner-Driscoll House for a gourmet meal on Friday. Using Reba Mae's key, which I'd forgotten to return, I let myself in the front door. Fumbling in the dark, I found a wall switch and turned on a table lamp. The dim light from an energy-efficient bulb showed nothing had changed since my last visit. If anything, the dust was thicker, the musty odor stronger. The drawn drapes added to the gloom. A client had told Reba Mae that the appraiser Becca's children had hired was expected next week. The remainder of Becca's personal belongings would be shipped off to Goodwill or the Salvation Army. After that, the house would go on the market. All traces of her existence here in Brandywine Creek would be erased. How sad.

Heaving a sigh, I reminded myself of my late-night mission. I confiscated a plastic laundry basket from the top of the clothes dryer and filled it with the finicky but pretty blooms. Becca's fondness for pink was evident in her choice of plants. The flowers ranged from dainty baby-girl pink to the more vibrant bubble-gum hue.

My task completed, I sank down on the overstuffed chair opposite Becca's flat-screen television and was nearly swallowed in its cushy softness. I absently ran my hand along the piping of a throw pillow embroidered with the saying
THE TRUTH WILL SET YOU FREE.
Poor Becca. What an untimely end to an otherwise unhappy life.

Who hated her enough to want her dead? Certainly not Maybelle. Didn't the fact Maybelle was dipping her toe into the Internet dating pool prove she'd moved on with her life? Barbie had sufficient motive but a rock-solid alibi. Or was I overcomplicating matters? Becca's death could have been a random act of violence. A simple crime of opportunity. A mugging gone awry. Whatever the case, she deserved justice.

I shifted my weight slightly and heard paper rustle. Glancing downward, I discovered a crumpled sheet of newspaper wedged between the cushions. Pulling it free, I recognized the TV section from the newspaper. Becca had circled several programs with a black marker. I got goose bumps when I realized the date coincided with the night of her death.

Keeping Up with the Kardashians
was one of the shows circled. No big surprise there. The other was
Vanished
—saints and sinners who vanished into thin air—which also happened to be Melly's guilty pleasure.

A sound, soft and subtle, caught my attention. It seemed to emanate from the rear of the house. I sat up straighter, listening, my senses heightened. The creak of a hinge? A footstep? A tickle of fear raced down my spine.

“Who's there?” I called, pushing free from the chair's cloying embrace.

No answer.

The ensuing silence was even creepier. Had the slight sound been a trick of my imagination? Why had I left my trusty little guard dog snoozing in the car? Worse yet, why had I left my purse under the seat with my cell phone in it? Careless of me. I edged toward the door while keeping my eyes trained on the darkened dining room and the even darker kitchen beyond. In my imagination, the living room suddenly took on the dimensions of a football field.

“Hello!” I called a second time, hoping I sounded braver than I felt.

Silence. Again.

The little hairs at the nape of my neck stood on end. I half-turned on the balls of my feet, ready to sprint, when a banging on the front door nearly made me jump out of my skin.

“Yoo-hoo!”

I went weak in the knees at recognizing Gerilee Barker's voice. Racing to the door, I yanked it open. I barely refrained from throwing myself into the woman's arms.