Kill 'Em with Cayenne (3 page)

My finger hovered over the send icon when the front door opened. I glanced up and all thoughts of chili peppers vanished. When it came to heat, Police Chief Wyatt McBride topped the chart of Scoville units. “Hot, hotter, and hottest,” in his case, translated into “tall, dark, and handsome.” Brandywine Creek's native son McBride had recently returned home after a stint as a Miami-Dade homicide detective.

“Hey, McBride. If you're looking for handouts in the form of cookies or muffins, you're out of luck.”

“Hey yourself.” He flashed a smile that showed off the cute dimple in his cheek, which always made me weak in the knees. “Cookies and muffins might constitute bribing an officer of the law. There might be consequences.”

“Hmm…” Now it was my turn to resort to a vowel-less vocabulary. I opened my mouth to make a snappy comeback but was interrupted by a loud shriek.

“Wyatt!”

I watched in amazement as Barb-B-Q, no longer cool, calm, and collected, hurled herself into the arms of Wyatt McBride. My mouth hung open as he laughingly lifted her off her feet and swung her around.

Finally, McBride set Barbie down. “You look fabulous.”

“So do you,” the bombshell purred.

Giving myself a sound scolding, I went back to ordering chili peppers. I happened to be dating a pretty terrific man by the name of Doug Winters. I had no call to feel the least bit irritated at watching old friends reunite.

*   *   *

Unable to sleep, I woke around 3:00
A.M.
Except for an occasional gentle snore from my pup, the apartment over Spice It Up!—where I'd lived since my divorce—was quiet. Now that summer school was behind her, my sixteen-year-old daughter, Lindsey, was spending the week at a friend's lake house. My son, Chad, a pre-med student at University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, had opted to spend his summer working as a lifeguard. I missed the noise and chaos of family life. What I didn't miss was trying to please a man impossible to please. I'd tried hard to make our marriage work, I really did, but in the end I'd been upgraded for a twenty-four-year-old former beauty queen in a miniskirt.

I shook off my nostalgia. No sense dwelling on the past.

Yawning, I got out of bed and padded into the living room to stare out the window at the square across the street. A statue of a Confederate soldier, rifle at the ready, stood sentry atop a stone pedestal. The square's grassy expanse was the heart and soul of Brandywine Creek's downtown. A tidy row of shops and businesses lined both sides. Like stately bookends, a pillared courthouse presided over one end, the renovated opera house the other. Willow oaks provided shade; flowering shrubs added color. The scene was peaceful, serene. Small-town America at its finest.

Stifling another yawn, I trudged back to bed and promptly fell asleep.

When the alarm sounded later, my first impulse was to slap it silly. I'd planned to take my snazzy new sneakers out for a spin. Jogging was a recently acquired habit of mine. It's something I'm trying on for size to balance my pizza addiction. So far the verdict is still out. Before I could talk myself out of crawling back under the covers, I climbed out of bed.

Ten minutes later, garbed in a faded UNC T-shirt, old gym shorts, and a ridiculously expensive pair of neon-green running shoes, I was good to go. I snapped on Casey's leash and designated him my jogging partner.

After a few simple warm-ups, I started down Main Street with Casey trotting obediently at my heels. It was a glorious morning. Billowy clouds drifted across a bright blue sky. Birds chirped in the willow oaks. I jogged past the opera house, then turned onto a residential street. I passed my ex-mother-in-law's house and kept going. The soles of my shoes rhythmically slapped concrete, and I hit my stride. I felt I could run forever.

No sooner had the thought crossed my mind when a throbbing, burning pain shot down my shins. Shin splints. I'd apparently overestimated my athletic prowess. Slowing from a jog to a walk, I decided on a shortcut through the town square.

Casey seemed happier with the slower pace, too. Tugging on his leash, he pulled me toward a clump of azaleas. I gave him more leeway, thinking he wanted to do his business. Instead, Casey began to bark and strain on the leash.

“What is it, boy?”

Casey answered with another series of barks, punctuated by growls.

I edged closer. When I saw what Casey saw, bile rose in my throat. I thought for a moment I was going to be sick. Beneath the greenery and what at first glance appeared to be a bundle of rags lay a body.

Becca Dapkins, no longer pretty in pink, was deader 'n' roadkill.

 

C
HAPTER
4

“I
FOUND A
dead body,” I blurted the instant my 911 call was answered.

“Piper, hon, that you?”

“Precious…?” Relief flooded over me at hearing Precious Blessing's familiar drawl. Precious manned the front desk at the police department with the aplomb of a concierge at a five-star hotel. “I thought you worked afternoons.”

I inwardly berated myself for the inane comment. How stupid was that? Guess it goes to show the state I was in.

“Dorinda's daughter went into labor. I'm fillin' in. What's this about a body?”

I clutched my cell so tight my knuckles ached. “It's … she's … under an azalea bush in the square.”

“Sugar”—Precious clucked her tongue—“I'd sure hate to see you in a heap of trouble. Makin' a false nine-one-one call is a serious offense. If you want to talk to the chief, dial his cell. I'd be more'n happy to give you the number.”

I huffed out a breath. “Precious, this isn't a joke. Call McBride and tell him to get his butt over here on the double.”

“Ain't findin' one dead body enough for you, girl?” she asked, referring to my recent track record. “Sit tight. Cavalry's comin'.”

No sooner had I disconnected when the wail of sirens split the air. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw the flash of red and blue lights. The rapid response didn't come as a surprise, since the police department was located on Lincoln Street two blocks away. Seconds later, two squad cars screeched to a halt at the curb.

Wyatt McBride leaped out of the lead car. His long strides ate up the space that separated us. “What's this about a body?”

Even under ordinary circumstances, McBride at six foot one and probably two hundred pounds tends to be intimidating, but when in full cop mode he's a force to be reckoned with. I resisted the urge to take a step backward. I pointed. “Over there.”

I watched as McBride shoved branches aside and glimpsed the crumpled form of Becca Dapkins. Bending down, he felt for a pulse. I could've told him it was useless, seeing how Becca's skin was the color of day-old mashed potatoes, but kept my own counsel.

“Recognize the vic?”

The vic?
I shivered at the clinical term. “Becca Dapkins. She works at the water department. Better make that ‘worked,'” I amended.

Running an impatient hand through his military-short black hair, he scowled at me. “How is it that in the brief time I've known you, you've managed to find more bodies than most cadaver dogs?”

“For your information,
I
didn't find the body. Casey did.”

At hearing his name, the pup's ears perked up and he gave McBride his best doggy smile.

“Casey might not be a cadaver dog, but he's every bit as smart,” I said.

“Please tell me neither you nor your four-legged friend touched anything?”

“I know the drill, McBride,” I replied heatedly. “I'm not exactly a newbie in the dead body department.” I thought I heard teeth grind, but I could've been mistaken.

“Did you happen to see or hear anything suspicious?”

“I didn't notice anyone hanging around if that's what you mean. There aren't many people out and about this early in the morning.”

McBride turned to the officers who hovered nearby, awaiting orders. “Tucker, cordon off the area,” he barked. “Moyer, get the camera. Start taking photos.”

The light sweat I'd worked up while jogging was beginning to evaporate on my skin, leaving me chilled. I rubbed my arms. “Am I free to leave?”

“Not so fast.” McBride swung his attention back to me and zapped me into obedience with his laser-blue eyes. “In concise terms, tell me how you—of all people—happened upon the vic?”

My teeth started to chatter as a delayed reaction at finding Becca finally set in. While Becca and I were more acquaintances than friends, I felt terrible about what happened to her.

“Piper…”

I realized McBride was still waiting for an answer to his question. “Sh-shin splints,” I managed to stammer.

His gaze narrowed. “You okay? You're white as a ghost.”

“I'm f-fine,” I muttered. “Or at least I will be once I warm up.”

I thought he muttered something that sounded like “danged skimpy clothes,” but I wouldn't swear to it on a stack of Bibles.

“Have a seat in the patrol car and wait for me. I still need to ask you a few questions.”

“B-but—”

He held up a hand to forestall a protest he saw forming. “No argument. Right now, I have to make sure the crime scene is secure.”

“Crime scene…?” I echoed, but I doubt that he heard me. He was already hurrying away.

Shoulders hunched and Casey trotting alongside me, I slowly made my way to the cop car and slid into the driver's seat. No way was I going to sit behind a mesh screen in a spot reserved for miscreants and felons. I wrapped Casey's leash around the door handle, and the little dog settled down to regard the goings-on with watchful eyes.

The interior of the car felt warm. I detected a faint, lingering citrusy scent.
McBride's aftershave?
I wondered.
Or air freshener?
Eager to take my mind off Becca—and McBride—I concentrated on my surroundings. With its myriad of dials and gadgets, I likened it to a landlubber's version of an airplane cockpit. A police radio crackled and hummed. A radar gun rested in a special holster on the dash. The stainless-steel arm of a hand-operated spotlight jutted out left of the windshield. The console boasted a state-of-the-art computer. McBride had Facebook, Twitter, and YouTube at his fingertips.

I was about to look away when I noticed an item of even greater interest—a stainless-steel coffee mug—sitting in a cup holder. I plucked it out and held it to my nose. The smell of fresh-brewed coffee tantalized my taste buds. I couldn't help myself. I took a sip, then another. Hot and strong, it warmed my innards. Surely McBride wouldn't notice if the mug wasn't quite as full as he'd left it.

As my insides began to thaw, my brain clicked into gear. C
rime scene?
Who'd want to kill Becca? I distinctly recalled McBride saying “crime scene.” Surely he was mistaken. I closed my eyes and envisioned Becca lying on her side, her right hand outstretched as if to break a fall. The hair at the back of her head had appeared sticky, matted. Certainly there must be a reasonable explanation for her death. Maybe she'd tripped over a root or slipped on a hickory nut. Maybe she'd suffered a heart attack. Or had a seizure. Whatever the case, she'd fallen and struck her head. A simple accident. Not foul play.

Then doubt pricked a teensy hole in my theory, letting the air out of my bubble of self-deception. If Becca had fallen—and landed in her present position—she'd have struck her forehead, not the back of her skull.

I mulled this over as I drank coffee. Yellow tape now decorated shrubs and bushes like a child's clumsy attempt at putting garland on a Christmas tree. I watched McBride, notebook in hand, prowl the scene in ever-widening circles. The paramedics arrived, armed and ready to administer CPR to a corpse. The fire department followed minutes later in their hook and ladder in a show of solidarity for their crime-fighting buddies. The men climbed out of their respective vehicles and congregated in a tight knot outside the roped-off area. Last, but by no means least, John Strickland, local mortician and county coroner, pulled up in a van, then toted a medical case over to where Becca lay under the azaleas.

“Hey, girlfriend.” Reba Mae sidled up to where I sat. “What's this about you findin' a body? Wasn't one enough?”

Sheesh!
I hissed out a breath between clenched teeth. One would think I made a habit of seeing dead people. And all because several months ago I'd happened upon a local chef who'd been murdered in his own kitchen.

“I swear, Reba Mae, if one more person asks me that, I'm going to scream bloody murder.” I clapped my hand over my mouth. “Please,” I groaned. “Poor choice of words. Forget I just said that.”

“No problem, honeybun,” she said. “News is spreadin' like a brush fire. Good thing you're sittin' up front or else folks would really have somethin' to talk about.”

At hearing this, I glanced around. Folks were fighting a losing battle not to stare my way. I'm not clairvoyant, but I could read their minds. They were asking themselves and one another what Piper Prescott was doing in a police car. Was I a suspect in an assault and battery? Or a murder? Was I about to be arrested? And how was it a person could find more than one dead body in an entire lifetime? Tired of being a sitting duck, I popped out of the police car and leaned against the rear bumper.

Reba Mae leaned next to me. “So fill me in.”

“Blame it on shin splints,” I grumbled, taking another sip of McBride's coffee.

“What did I tell you when you bought those fancy runnin' shoes?” She shot a glance at my psychedelic-green footwear. “I tried to warn you that exercise isn't all it's cracked up to be. Look where it's gotcha.”

“I overdid too much of a good thing,” I confessed. “If it hadn't been for those darn shin splints, I'd be standing
behind
the crime scene tape instead of being stared at by my friends and neighbors.”