Kill 'Em with Cayenne (31 page)

“Too bad it takes a murder to catch some folks' attention.”

“Gracious! I nearly forgot what brought me here.” She produced a wad of coupons from the envelope she carried and handed them to me.

“What're these?”

“Each coupon entitles the bearer to sample barbecue from any of the participating vendors. It also entitles them to cast a vote for their favorite.”

“Great idea.” I set the coupons next to the cash register where I wouldn't forget to hand them out. “I don't recall doing this in the past.”

“It's something new.” Maybelle's face brightened. “Tex Mahoney's been dropping by the Chamber from time to time. The coupons were his idea. Tex said this has worked well in some of the other contests he's been in. He said it encourages visitors to patronize local businesses during the course of the festival. I had to get the town council's approval, of course, but Mayor Hemmings finally agreed to give Tex's suggestion a try.”

“One to a customer it is.”

“Tex is a bona fide barbecue expert. A purist.” Maybelle hugged the envelope to her bosom like a schoolgirl. “He told me he gets furious when contestants try to cheat. He went on and on about the stunts folks try to pull. Tex said competition is something fierce, but rules are rules. Meat can't be marinated, injected, precooked, or pretreated. Those are grounds for disqualification according to the sanctioning organization.”

Long after Maybelle left to deliver coupons to the rest of the merchants, I mulled over what she'd just said. I recalled the drawer full of flavor injectors in various shapes and sizes that Reba Mae and I found in Becca's kitchen. A woman who used cream of mushroom soup as liberally as others did catsup had little use for a flavor injector. To the best of my knowledge, the recipe for green bean casserole didn't call for one.

Becca had bragged about bringing home a trophy. She wanted to show everyone once and for all she was an award-worthy cook. How far would she go to prove her point? Knowing Becca, she intended to win—even if it meant cheating to do so. What if Tex had discovered her plan? Maybelle had mentioned cheating made him furious.

But furious enough to kill?

I was restocking shelves, my mind on autopilot, when Doug entered wearing his bright-orange Pit Crew T-shirt and jeans. “How's my favorite spice girl?” he asked.

I stopped what I was doing long enough to return his smile. “I've been dancing to the tune of a busy cash register most of the day. What brings you into town?”

“Wally Porter called a mandatory meeting for team captains. He wants to go over rules and regulations a final time. Answer any questions. Make sure there are no misunderstandings.”

“I heard the rules are quite strict.”

“Yeah, they are.” Doug took off his wire-rimmed glasses and polished them with a handkerchief. “Five pages' worth of strict. Everything from no controlled substances to no pineapple rings on the pork. Off with their heads to anyone caught deviating.”

Off with their heads…?
I cringed inwardly. The phrase brought to mind Becca's bloody skull.

“Sorry I haven't been very attentive recently,” Doug continued. “Been too caught up trying to find the perfect rub, the perfect sauce, but I'll make it up to you once the festival's over. Dinner, maybe take in a movie. I heard about a terrific new restaurant in Augusta I'd like to try.”

“Sure,” I said, noting it was time to order more cardamom. “Dinner and a movie would be great.”

He studied me, a worried look on his face. “I don't detect much enthusiasm on your part.”

“Sorry,” I apologized, taking his hand and squeezing it. “Guess I'm distracted by all the goings-on.”

“Apology accepted,” he said, then brightened. “Say, better yet, why don't I take you dancing? I heard about a club not far from here that has a live band every Saturday night.”

“Sounds like fun.”

“That's more like it.” He drew me in for a kiss, and for blissful seconds my mind emptied of everything else.

“Guess I'll see you tomorrow night then for the street dance,” Doug said when we broke apart. He started for the door, then turned and grinned at me over his shoulder. “Hopefully, you'll be able to spot me behind the big trophy I'll be carrying.”

“Good luck!” I called after him.

As I slowly walked back toward the storeroom, I was unable to escape the niggling feeling that the window of opportunity for finding Becca's killer was about to slam shut. The barbecue festival would soon be over. Would the chance to find the murderer be over as well?

 

C
HAPTER
33

I
T WASN'T EVERY
day I was invited to dine at a home dating back to the 1820s. I was looking forward to the occasion. It would be the perfect opportunity to learn more about Tex and Wally, too. I dressed with care in a black and white floral jacquard skirt, sleeveless black top, and peep-toe patent-leather pumps. The Turner-Driscoll House had been the talk of the town as the once-neglected grande dame had flourished from tired into fabulous.

I alighted from my carriage—er, make that my VW Beetle—beneath the boughs of a stately magnolia and sashayed up the front steps to the portico. I had no sooner rung the bell when the door was opened by a young black girl.

“Mrs. Driscoll is expecting you, Mrs. Prescott,” the girl informed me. “She said you were to join the others in the parlor. If you'll follow me…”

The girl looked vaguely familiar, yet I couldn't quite place her. She was slender and quite pretty, with skin the warm brown of an acorn. I guessed her to be in her late teens. “Excuse me, but have we met?”

“I graduated from high school with your son, Chad.” She flashed a smile over her shoulder. “I'm Lakeisha Blessing.”

“Then you must be related to Precious.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Lakeisha acknowledged. “Precious is my auntie.”

“Ahh, yes,” I said. “Chad, I recall, was quite upset when you beat him out for class valedictorian.”

Lakeisha simply smiled and, upon reaching the parlor, excused herself.

“Piper!” Felicity rose from the settee and hurried over to greet me. Her other guests had already assembled and were enjoying cocktails in stemmed glasses. Tex and Wally, gentlemen that they were, rose when they spotted me. Reba Mae waggled her fingers and grinned.

Linking her arm through mine, Felicity drew me into the room where I'd been only the day before. “Wally is making martinis. Care to join us, or would you prefer a nice Chardonnay?”

“I'll have a martini,” I heard myself reply. I resisted the urge to go all James Bond on her and add
shaken, not stirred
. Luckily I caught myself in time. I have to confess I've never tasted a martini. The drink—or maybe it was the fancy glasses—always seemed glamorous and sophisticated, so I put any misgivings aside.

“Excellent choice.” Wally nodded his approval. “One olive or two?”

What was with the quiz? Was there a right or wrong answer? What if I didn't like olives? With these questions zipping through my brain, I contemplated my options. Reba Mae cleared her throat. I darted a glance in her direction and, much to my relief, saw her hold up her index and middle fingers.

“Two,” I replied. “I prefer martinis with two olives.”

While Wally measured gin and vermouth into a silver shaker, Tex indicated a chair across from Reba Mae. “Have a seat, little lady.”

I cautiously lowered myself onto a chair that looked to be museum quality. The kind usually seen behind a velvet rope and inaccessible to humble tourists. Felicity offered me hors d'oeuvres prettily arranged on a silver tray.

“Try 'em, Piper,” Reba Mae urged. “They're to die for.”

“Those little triangles are a variation of cheese straws,” Felicity explained, looking pleased at Reba Mae's ringing endorsement.

“Cheese straws and deviled eggs are part of every Southern cook's repertoire,” Reba added, helping herself to another golden triangle.

“You're absolutely right, Reba Mae.” Felicity passed the tray to Tex. “As you can see, Piper, I used both the black and white sesame seeds I purchased in your shop.”

Wally handed me a martini. “Here you go.”

“I'm afraid I'm not familiar with black sesame seeds,” Tex confessed.

“Americans are more familiar with white sesame seeds,” I explained. “The black variety is used more commonly in Chinese and Japanese cooking.”

“Hmm, interesting.” Wally eyed me over the rim of his martini glass. “In my experience, black sesame seeds tend to be bitter.”

“True, but not if the dry roasting is done lightly.”

“I bow to your expertise.”

Wally's smile didn't reach his eyes. I got the impression he wasn't pleased I'd contradicted his opinion. I took a tiny sip of my martini and tried not to make a face when I discovered the drink stronger than anticipated.

When thirty minutes later Lakeisha Blessing announced dinner was ready, I was amazed to find my glass empty. I felt grateful for Tex's steadying arm as he escorted me into the dining room. Martinis, it seemed, packed a punch. I made a mental note to steer clear of them in the future.

Seated at an antique dining room table, I experienced once again the sensation of stepping back in time. Felicity had pulled out all the stops to make dinner a memorable occasion. Bone china, crystal, and silver sparkled against the white damask tablecloth. I doubted the room looked much different than it had when news arrived that General Sherman and his troops were marching across Georgia. The only things absent were hoop skirts and frock coats.

Felicity sat enthroned at the head of the table and requested that Tex and Wally sit on either side of her. I was seated beside Tex while Reba Mae sat across from me next to Wally. At a signal from Felicity, Lakeisha served a salad of field greens, toasted pecans, and mandarin oranges drizzled with raspberry vinaigrette.

Wally, assuming the role of sommelier, circled the table and poured wine. “I selected a full-bodied cabernet sauvignon to pair with the beef bourguignon. My specialty is really Italian, but tonight I decided to serve French instead.”

“Wally's spinach and eggplant lasagna with sun-dried tomatoes was superb,” Felicity said.

Leaning over, Tex whispered, “Me, on the other hand, a burger, a brew, and I'm happy.”

Felicity passed a basket of flaky dinner rolls. “I consider myself fortunate at having Lakeisha help when I entertain. I'll miss her when she returns to Georgia Southern in Statesboro. Her father, Bubba Blessing, is an entrant in the amateur division.”

Tex stopped slathering butter on his roll. “What's your father's specialty, Lakeisha?”

“Ribs, sir,” she said, pride in her voice. “Daddy's are the best. They melt in your mouth.”

“You're not trying to influence one of the judges, are you, Lakeisha?” Wally asked, quick to remind us of his esteemed position lest we had lapsed into dementia.

Lakeisha's dark eyes rounded. “No, sir. I didn't mean…”

Felicity clucked her tongue. “I'm certain Mr. Porter was merely teasing, dear.”

Wally gave the girl a stern look. “Now would be a good time, Lakeisha, to plate the entrée. Remember to do it exactly as I instructed.”

“Yes, sir.” Lakeisha hurried out.

“Speaking of specialties,” Felicity continued, “I don't think I've ever tasted better brisket than the one Tex made for us.”

Brisket…?
I paused in the act of reaching for my wine.
As in bludgeoned with a brisket?

From across the table, Reba Mae shot me a look. “I heard Pete Barker at Meat on Main had a run on brisket,” she said, picking up the conversational thread. “Could hardly keep up with orders.”

“Dottie Hemmings told me Becca Dapkins bought his entire stock,” I said, improvising like mad.

“You know what they say about timing.” Tex raised his wineglass and winked. “Lucky for me Pete found one lonely brisket, froze hard as a brick, hiding in the back of his meat locker.”

“Don't suppose you're of a mind to share your recipe?” Reba Mae all but batted her eyelashes.

“Sorry, ma'am, but wild horses couldn't drag it out of me. It's been in the family for years. Family secrets are hard to part with–even to a lady as pretty as yourself.”

Reba Mae speared a slice of mandarin orange. “Can't blame a girl for tryin'.”

“I tried to persuade Reba Mae to divulge her secrets for Hungarian goulash, but with no success,” Wally grumbled. “I even tried bribing her with an excellent Bordeaux.”

Lakeisha returned to clear the salad plates. I would've liked to find out more about Tex and his magic way with a brisket that was “hard as a brick,” but talk drifted to other topics. I promised myself I'd corner Felicity later in an effort to learn more.

The beef bourguignon lived up to the hype. Wally's chest swelled like a pufferfish in the Georgia Aquarium at all the praise. He celebrated his resounding culinary success by opening a second bottle of red wine. He failed to notice I'd barely touched the first glass he'd poured me.

My chance to speak privately to Felicity came when she announced it was time for dessert. “I'll help,” I said, hopping up from my chair before she could refuse. I raced after her as rapidly as my high heels and pencil-slim skirt allowed.

I caught up with her as she was about to enter a kitchen that seemed surprisingly modern in a house nearly two hundred years old. “That's very thoughtful of you to offer help but unnecessary,” she said. “Lakeisha and I can manage quite nicely.”

“I wanted to ask you a question,” I told her, glancing down the hall to make sure no one was within earshot. “I wondered if you recalled exactly when Tex cooked his brisket.”