Kill 'Em with Cayenne (29 page)

Gerilee stood on the front porch, straining to keep a short leash on a large dog. The dog—a black Lab if I had to make a guess—growled deep in his throat. “Bruno, stop it!” Gerilee scolded, then turned to me. “I was taking Bruno for his nightly walk when I noticed your car out front and saw a light on. Thought I'd stop, make sure everything was okay.”

I let out a shaky sigh. “Everything's fine.”

Bruno kept up his low, throaty growl. “I can't imagine what's gotten into him tonight. He's usually very even tempered and well behaved.”

“Gerilee, can you wait a sec while I lock up?”

Before she had a chance to refuse I darted back to collect the laundry basket of plants from the living room floor. I almost dropped it on the worn carpet at what sounded like the crack of a gun.

Bruno barked and lunged on the leash.

“Bruno, hush! Bad dog,” Gerilee tried to quiet her pet. “Mercy, what was that?”

“Bring Bruno along, and we'll check it out.”

“Has this old house gotten you spooked?” Gerilee laughed—rather nervously, I thought—as she and her pet stepped inside Becca's poorly lit home.

“Of course not,” I said. A lie, a lie, a bald-faced lie.

I headed toward the kitchen feeling much braver having reinforcements. I stumbled to a halt in the doorway. A door that opened on to a small concrete back porch stood open.

Gerilee noticed it, too. “The Realtor or appraiser must not have closed it all the way when they left. A gust of wind probably caught the door and slammed it against the wall.”

Hurrying over, I shut the door and twisted the dead bolt. “Let's go.”

Pausing only long enough to pick up the basket of houseplants, I forced myself to walk when I wanted to run. Do not pass go! Do not collect two hundred dollars! I couldn't get out of the place fast enough.

*   *   *

Once I was safe and sound in my apartment, my heart rate gradually returned to normal. I still felt a bit on edge. I blamed it on the Dr Pepper I drank at McBride's. Probably heavy on caffeine and loaded with sugar. I wandered to the window overlooking the square. The statue of the Confederate soldier was clearly visible through the maze of tents and booths. If only statues could talk …

I hugged my arms around myself. I couldn't stop thinking about my visit to Becca's. As I sat in an empty house, thinking of a dead woman, my imagination slipped into overdrive? Still … I could have sworn that someone besides me was in the house. True, the Realtor or appraiser could have left the door unlatched and a sudden breeze could have sent it crashing open.

Yet how would that explain what sounded like a muffled footstep?

I paced the length of my living room. Becca's house had belonged to her grandmother. Old houses and old buildings, such as mine, often creaked or groaned. The previous occupants of Spice It Up!—a tanning salon/movie rental business—insisted the building was haunted by the ghost of a bootlegger killed when his still exploded, setting fire to half the town. Personally, I believed the tanning salon/movie rental owner smoked dope. Or indulged in too many magic mushrooms.

But the question remained: Who, and why, would anyone sneak into Becca's place that time of night unless they were up to no good? Question followed question. If Barbie was truly innocent of the evil deed, who else hated Becca enough to kill her? A disgruntled water department customer? Possibly but, in my opinion, highly unlikely. Then who? Had Becca grievously offended someone in town connected to the barbecue festival? Or was the culprit someone who resided right here in Brandywine Creek all along?

Finally, I gave up trying to find the answer.

After changing into pj's, I washed off my makeup, brushed my teeth, then climbed into bed and hit the remote. A guest on a late-night program was belting out her latest and greatest. The refrain caught my attention. Words to the effect that it was easy for a good girl to go bad. The sentiment was similar to one I'd heard earlier after leaving McBride's. Guess some messages bear repeating. I clicked off the television and turned off the light. Tomorrow was a new day.

 

C
HAPTER
31

B
EFORE THINGS GOT
too wild and crazy, I decided an early-morning jog was in order. Jamming a ball cap over my stubby wannabe ponytail, I was out the door with Casey in no time flat. In the square across the street, tents colorful enough to inhabit a box of Crayolas seemed to have popped up overnight—a kaleidoscope of green, red, yellow, and blue. The clang of metal against metal assaulted my ears as men worked to erect still more booths. I plugged the earbuds of my MP3 player into my ears to drown out the noise, then started off to the upbeat music of Sugarland.

Although the actual judging wouldn't take place until tomorrow afternoon, the atmosphere in town already felt supercharged. The streets surrounding the square were blocked off with bright-orange barrels to allow contestants easy access. In spite of the hour, vendors were already beginning to congregate. Ladies from the Methodist church chattered and called out to one another as they toted plastic bins filled with arts and crafts back and forth for their two-day bazaar. Later tonight, a free blues concert would take place on a stage erected in the parking lot of Cloune Motors. It always drew a crowd. In addition to the regular bunch of tourists, news of Becca's murder had generated a great deal of media atttention. Mayor Hemmings must be dancing a jig at the turnout.

After a five-minute brisk walk, I picked up speed and settled into a slow, steady jog with Casey keeping pace. I traded the bustling commercial district for a quieter residential one. Squirrels chased each other up trees. Cardinals—or redbirds as they're called in the South—flitted in and out of the holly bushes in Pinky Alexander's yard. It was a lovely morning, perfect really, sunny with a clear blue sky. I wished I could capture its essence in a spray bottle. I'd use it like expensive perfume on gloomy days.

I was singing along with Jennifer Nettles when I was hit by a blast of cold water so powerful it nearly knocked me off my feet. Then, just as suddenly, the blast ceased. I was drenched. I stood in the middle of the sidewalk and shook myself until my earbuds fell out. My poor pup. He looked like a drowned rat from his unexpected bath.

“Oh boy. Man, oh man, I'm so sorry. My apologies.” Thompson Gray, owner of Gray's Hardware, rushed across his yard, all red in the face. Tall and lanky with thinning brown hair, Thompson lived with his widowed mother. The hardware store had been in the family for three generations. “Sorry, Piper. I'm testing a new rotor for my irrigation system. Must've had the nozzle set to spray in the wrong direction.”

Beads of water dripped from the bill of my cap. Casey shuddered, sending water droplets flying every which way. I jogged in place, holding my T-shirt away from my wet skin while Jennifer warbled about something—or someone–being stuck like glue. “If you don't make an adjustment, your walk's going to turn into a wading pool.”

“Right, right,” Thompson said, clearly distressed. “Anything I can get you? A towel maybe.”

Pushing the earbuds back into place, I waved his offer aside. “Thanks, Thompson, but I think I'll head on home.”

Due to the unforeseen circumstances, I looped around the block and detoured through the square. I ignored people who gawked curiously as I jogged past and pretended I wasn't soaking wet. I had Spice It Up! in the crosshairs when McBride stepped out of the bushes near where I'd found Becca's corpse.

I let out a startled yelp and skidded to a halt. “McBride, you scared the daylights out of me!”

He gave me the eye, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Thinking about trying out for a wet T-shirt contest down at High Cotton?”

I squinted up at him. “Hi what?”

He plucked the earbuds from my ears. “I asked if you were auditioning for a wet T-shirt contest.”

I glanced downward. My shirt clung to me like tissue paper. My cheeks burned with embarrassment. Mortified, I crossed my arms to cover my chest the best I could while maintaining a grip on Casey's leash. “Thompson Gray had a rotor of his irrigation system aimed wrong,” I said. “Must have had it on a timer.”

“Well, as they say,” McBride drawled. “Timing's everything.”

I tried to dart around him, but he moved slightly and blocked my path. “I wanted to go over the crime scene one more time,” he explained. “Make sure nothing was overlooked. Couldn't help but notice again how you have a clear view of the exact spot where the body was found.”

I shivered, but the chill had nothing to do with my damp clothes and everything to do with Becca. Casey hunkered down at my feet, content to track the flight of a hummingbird.

“Cold?”

Absently I rubbed my arms to warm them. “I'm not sure I mentioned it earlier, but I had trouble sleeping the night Becca was murdered. For a long time, I stood staring out that window thinking how peaceful everything looked. The whole time Becca was laying half-hidden under the azaleas.”

McBride's gaze sharpened. Only now it wasn't my wet shirt he was looking at but my face. “No,” he said slowly, “you never mentioned this. Did you recall anything unusual? Something out of the ordinary?”

“Of course not,” I replied indignantly. “I would have told you if I had. Are you still working under the assumption Becca's death was a random act of violence?”

“And you're still convinced Becca was murdered elsewhere,” he countered, more statement than question. “Off the record, let me say we're checking out all possibilities.”

“You can't seriously think Maybelle Humphries killed Becca in a fit of jealousy over Buzz Oliver?”

“The woman's got motive, means, and opportunity. That puts her at the top of my list.”

“She has an alibi,” I blurted. “Or she did.”

“Ms. Humphries told me she was home alone, but couldn't prove it.”

“She wasn't home—alone or otherwise. She was in Augusta.” Maybelle would be furious with me for telling her secret, but I'd cross that bridge when I came to it. “Maybelle's been trying her hand at Internet dating. She got stood up that night. Rather than go home, she went to a movie. She has—had—the ticket stub and a receipt for the gasoline she bought on the way home.”

He raised a brow. “Had…?”

“They were in her wallet when it was stolen.”

“Did you actually see this ticket stub and receipt?”

I huffed out a breath. “Well, no, but—”

“Never been a believer in coincidence. First Ms. Humphries deliberately lies to an officer of the law about her whereabouts. Now her so-called alibi disappears. Sounds fishy, if you want my opinion.”

“Maybelle was positive you'd find the killer and no one would ever need know her secret. She has too much pride to let everyone in town think she's desperate for a man. Are you going to arrest her?”

McBride's cop mask had slipped firmly into place. His grim-lipped silence told me all I needed to know. Maybelle was toast.

“Wait!” I cried as he started to walk away. Suddenly an idea had struck me with enough force to knock the wind out of my sails. For the life of me I don't know why it didn't occur to me sooner, but I'd kick myself later. “Don't places like movie theaters and gas stations have surveillance cameras? Wouldn't they prove Maybelle was miles away when Becca was murdered?”

“Without the receipts to back up her claim, how do I know the woman isn't lying? She doesn't exactly have a sterling track record when it comes to telling the truth. I've got too much on my plate right now to spend hours poring through video footage for what, in all likelihood, will turn out to be a colossal waste of time.”

As I watched him stroll away, I wanted to stomp my foot in frustration. I should have insisted Maybelle go directly to McBride the night I'd first heard about her proof. Better yet, I should've gone
with
her. What kind of friend was I? I'd let Maybelle down. Well, I vowed, busy or not, I wouldn't let McBride off the hook without checking into this more thoroughly.

*   *   *

I stood behind the counter, but my mind was elsewhere. If Maybelle didn't kill Becca, who did? Too bad the No-Tell Motel could verify that Buzz Oliver had been on bug patrol the night Becca died. With Buzz out of contention, my odds-on favorite would have been Barbie Quinlan. Who would've guessed Wyatt McBride himself could vouch for her whereabouts? With both Buzz and Barbie out of the equation, I needed to search elsewhere for Becca's killer. I decided to take a closer look at everyone Becca had contact with on the day and the days prior to her death, and that included barbecue aficionado Tex Mahoney and esteemed judge Wally Porter. In addition, I'd trace Becca's actions backward from the time of her death in the hope of finding a clue to her murderer.

“Mom…?” Lindsey's plaintive voice broke into my musings. “You haven't heard a single word I've said.”

I snapped to attention. “Sorry, sweetie. Tell me again.”

Lindsey rolled her eyes. “I was talking about how amazing Carter and Barbie are. You wouldn't believe how they piece together a story about a boring little town like Brandywine Creek and make it sound interesting.”

“Mmm-hmm.” I tried—but not very hard–to work up a shred of enthusiasm. Lindsey had been rambling on and on about the dynamic duo ever since she returned from her overnight at Amber's.

“Barbie is
really
nice. And talented, too. You ought to make more of an effort to get to know her, Mom. And Carter says Barbie has great instincts about what works and what doesn't.”

“That's nice, sweetie.” I reminded myself the festival would soon be over and Barbie would ride out of town on her broomstick.

Lindsey ran a feather duster over a shelf holding various forms of ginger—crystallized, sliced, powdered, and cracked. “According to Carter, Barbie's very creative. Her husband was quite a bit older. He left her a boatload of money when he died, so she doesn't really have to work like you do.”