Kill 'Em with Cayenne (34 page)

I was instantly sorry for what I'd just said. I opened my mouth to apologize but was interrupted by drumroll and a roar of applause coming from the square.

Melly discarded her empty paper plate in the trash. “Winners in the various categories must have been announced.”

As if in response to her comment, Doug bounded in, wielding a trophy in the shape of a pig. “Second place. Backyard division,” he said, his face wreathed in triumph.

I hurried over to admire his prize. “That's wonderful, Doug.”

“Who took first place?” Melly inquired innocently.

“Bubba Blessing and his
Bub-Ba-Cue
team,” Doug replied, too happy at the outcome to be upset. “Best of all, we're both invited to compete next year in the professional division.”

“Doug, that's terrific!” I said, hugging him.

Hugs, especially in this part of the country, are spontaneous and plentiful. Even so, I could feel the zing of Melly's disapproval. I know for a fact she didn't condone CJ's trading me in for a twenty-four-year-old with prefabricated boobs and glow-in-the-dark teeth. It never crossed my mind, however, that Melly might resent me moving forward with my life. It had taken me a while, but I'd finally made peace with being a divorcée and forsaken my vow of celibacy. I was ready to dip my toe into the relationship pool and test the water.

“A grillmaster from North Carolina and his team, Hogs Gone Wild, won the professional division,” Doug said, readjusting his grip on his trophy. “I asked for the recipe for his mop sauce, but he refused to give it up. He said he's been perfecting it for the past fifteen years.”

Melly wrinkled her nose. “Most mop sauces are too vinegary.”

“Bet you'd like this one,” Doug told her. “I think it might've had coffee in it. The guy kept swabbing it on the brisket the whole time it cooked. The meat was so moist and tender it fell right off the bone.”

“What about the taster's choice division?” I asked.

“Canceled,” Doug said. “Mayor Hemmings told the entrants it was being withheld out of respect for Becca Dapkins. That was the division she was determined to win. In a way, Becca did win, but posthumously.”

How had Tex taken the news that taster's choice had been canceled? I wondered. The man was a fierce competitor. After seeing the expression on his face when he nearly caught me snooping the previous night, I suspected a temper lurked behind the good ol' boy façade.

Business slowed to a trickle after Doug left, so I sent Melly home. She'd been a trooper, tirelessly ringing up sales and waiting on customers. I don't know how I would've managed without her. Now that peace and quiet returned to Spice It Up!, I used the time to enter data into my point-of-sale software. As I did so, I had to admit the changes Melly made, though minor, were time-savers. I wondered if she'd ever followed up on my suggestion to submit her ideas to the company that marketed it.

I glanced up when the shop door opened. Lindsey, her cheeks flushed, rushed in. “We did it, Mom,” she said, catching me up for a hug. “Our team placed second, but Doug said not to worry. Next year, we're going to finish first; just wait and see.”

“Now that's what I call a positive attitude,” I told her, stepping back. “Now about curfew…”

“Mo-om!” she cried. “Isn't it bad enough I have to wash all of Meemaw's tea sets? Can't your lecture wait till tomorrow? Right now I need a shower. My clothes reek of smoke and barbecue.”

“Fine,” I conceded. “Just make sure you're home on time tonight.”

“Promise,” she agreed. “Barbie and Carter filmed the entire trophy presentation. Wait till Amber hears I'm going to be on TV.”

“Oh, happy day,” I muttered under my breath as she danced away with Casey happily prancing after her.

*   *   *

A shower and a change of clothes were on my agenda as well. Fueled by the knowledge Spice It Up! showed a healthy profit, I was ready to celebrate. After my shower, I dressed in a swingy skirt and sleeveless top and put on my dancing shoes, which in this case happened to be ballet flats. Doug had advised leather soles were a must when it came to dancing the shag. He said to pretend my shoes were magnets and the floor was made out of metal. I added a collection of thin bangle bracelets to my wrist and I was ready.

It was an easy walk on a balmy summer night. The dance was being held in what had once been a pre-owned car lot belonging to Cloune Motors. The stock of vehicles had recently been liquidated, and the business was up for sale. In the meantime, Caleb Johnson, Reba Mae's boy, continued to operate the automotive-repair end of the business.

I heard the music from a block away—beach music. The kind that made you want to kick up your heels and swing your hips.
But,
I reminded myself,
no bouncing allowed in the shag
. I needed to “glide,” not bounce. I stood on the fringe and scanned the crowd for a familiar face. I'd told Doug that I'd meet him here, but he was hard to spot with all the people.

I thought I saw Reba Mae's head bobbing on the dance floor. I was about to wave and get her attention when Clay Johnson approached.

“Hey, Miz Prescott, lookin' for someone?”

“Hey yourself, Clay,” I said. “I'm supposed to meet Doug—Doc Winters—but I underestimated the turnout for the dance.”

“The shag contest is the draw. I saw Doc over at the bandstand talkin' to Mama.” Clay stuffed his hands into the pockets of his cargo shorts.

“Thanks,” I said.

I started off in the general direction of the dance floor when he stopped me. “Wait up, Miz Prescott.”

I paused. “Something bothering you, Clay? You know you can always come to me.”

“Yeah, you're cool. You didn't even lose your temper when I was a kid and my base hit flew through your kitchen window.”

“Having girl trouble?”

“Not exactly.” Rocking back on his heels, he studied the ground.

“Then what is it?” I prompted. The poor kid looked so upset, I wanted to put him out of his misery.

“I'm worried your daughter's headin' for trouble.”

“Lindsey?” My voice rose loud enough to turn the heads of a couple standing nearby. “What do you mean, ‘headin' for trouble'?”

His expression said he wanted to be anywhere else but where he was. “I hate to be a snitch, but…”

“But…?”

“Lindsey's been spendin' a lot of time around Carter Kincaid.”

“The videographer?” I asked in disbelief. “Why, Carter must be seven years older than Lindsey.”

Clay stared off into the near distance. “I'm not sure he knows her actual age. Once she sets her mind to it, Lindsey can easily pass for older than sixteen.”

I squared my shoulders. “Don't suppose you know where I might find them?”

“Yes, ma'am.” Clay nodded. “Saw them a few minutes ago over at the beer tent.”

 

C
HAPTER
36

I
STORMED OFF
in search of a certain young couple. And found them right where last spotted—outside the beer tent. Carter held a frosty bottle of Yuengling, a popular beer, in one hand. Lindsey, praise the Lord, was drinking a soda.

She looked none too happy to see me. “Hi, Mom,” she muttered.

My scowl wiped the smile from Carter Kincaid's face. Typhoid Mary would have received a warmer welcome. “Mrs. Prescott—”

“Carter's been teaching me about photography and videotaping,” Lindsey said in a valiant attempt to head off the storm she saw brewing. “I'm thinking of majoring in communications.”

“I see,” I drawled, attuned to her tactics. “What happened to becoming a veterinarian?”

“Carter's opened a whole new career path for me. Isn't that awesome?”

“‘Awesome' hardly begins to describe the way I feel right now.”

“A degree in communications can lead to a variety of job opportunities,” Carter began an erstwhile pitch for his chosen profession.

“College is still a year away,” I snapped. “Lindsey has plenty of time to decide what she wants to do when she grows up. Carter…” I paused for effect. “Do you realize my daughter is only sixteen?”

He blanched. “Sixteen?”

I simply nodded. Smart lad. He'd latched on to the key word. I felt inordinately pleased to see him squirm under my steely-eyed glare.

He turned toward Lindsey so abruptly he nearly spilled his brew. “You told me you were almost nineteen.”

Lindsey had the grace to look embarrassed by her deception. “Sixteen, nineteen. They're just three years apart.”

“Sixteen,” I said, my voice flat but my eyes shooting sparks. “Jailbait.”

Carter heaved his unfinished beer into a nearby trash barrel. “Gotta run. Barbie wants me on the road at first light tomorrow.”

“How humiliating!” Lindsey stomped her foot as she watched him disappear into the throng. “You're treating me like a child.”

“Then stop acting like one,” I hissed. “That's what you deserve after pretending to be ‘almost nineteen' and hanging out with men seven years older than yourself.”

“Six,” Lindsey corrected. “Carter's twenty-two.”

“In the future, limit your dating to boys your own age. And for good measure, I'll make sure your daddy knows—and abides—by the rules.”

Lindsey's lower lip jutted mutinously. “Why is it okay for Daddy to have a fiancée half his age? What make it all right for Amber to marry a man so much older than herself?”

Because Amber wants a father figure; Daddy wants a trophy wife,
I wanted to say, but took a calming breath instead. “That's a conversation you need to have with your father—and Amber.”

Every time I thought Lindsey had come to terms with mine and CJ's divorce, something new bubbled to the surface. Rather than confronting the issue head-on, she acted out with inappropriate behavior. I had to remember that while she looked grown-up on the outside, she was still a child in many ways. We—the three of us, CJ, and Lindsey, I—needed to sit down and air any grievances that still festered.

“Whatever,” Lindsey retorted, but the word had lost its usual sting. “Now that you chased Carter off is it all right if I find Taylor and hang out with friends my ‘own age'?”

“Fine,” I said. “As long as you're home by curfew.”

“Fine.” She turned on her heel and marched off.

Hoping I'd taken the right approach with my daughter, I turned in the opposite direction and plowed into McBride. “Trouble with your teen?”

What McBride omitted saying was trouble
again.
He'd already witnessed the problems a single mom faced raising a sweet but sometimes rebellious daughter. “The fire's under control—for the moment.”

“Good,” he said. Taking my elbow, he steered me away from the crowd.

“What's up?” I noticed that though he was out of uniform, there was a discreet bulge under his navy-blue polo shirt. I guessed Smith & Wesson hugged his waist.

McBride pulled me into the darkened doorway of Dale's Swap and Shop. “I got a surprise hit on the movie stub and gasoline receipt that just happened to fall out of a Bible in Tex Mahoney's room on your way to the ladies' room.”

I gaped at him. “Whose?”

“Call it the granddaddy of surprises,” he said. “The GBI lifted a set of prints belonging to a former Chicago mobster. AFIS ran them and came up with a guy who ratted out his former associates in order to avoid prison. His testimony led to more than two dozen convictions.”

“Wow!” I breathed. “Do you suppose that person is Tex Mahoney?”

“It's a possibility. Either that or someone deliberately planted them in Mahoney's room to throw suspicion elsewhere. The information I received said this guy opted out of the U.S. Marshals Witness Protection Program. The bulletin went on to state that it's believed he changed his name and moved to an undisclosed location.”

My jaw dropped at hearing this. Unanswered questions buzzed in my brain like bees in a honeycomb. Before I could voice one of the many, McBride's cell phone trilled. “I have to take it,” he said, glancing at the display. “Join the dancers till I get back. I want you in plain sight until I can sort this mess out.”

I nodded and moved toward the people crowding the makeshift dance floor. Beach music continued to blare over loudspeakers. The Witness Protection Program, or WitSec as McBride called it, had been featured on
Vanished
the night Becca was murdered. Karma or happenstance?

The DJ, mike in hand, called out instructions. “One and two. Three and four. Five, six!” Couples gyrated in what appeared to me a modified version of swing dancing. Craning my neck for a better look, I zeroed in on Doug with Reba Mae as his partner. I felt a stab of guilt for letting him down, quickly followed by admiration. The guy knew how to move.

He and Reba Mae shag-danced together as naturally as breathing. Their fancy footwork was greeted by cheers from the bystanders. Twisting, turning, and twirling, they took center stage. It was plain to see by their smiles that they were having fun.

“They make a nice couple,” Wally Porter said.

I looked over and found Wally standing next to me. His shaved head was turned to study the dancers, which allowed me a clear view of his profile. Something about him nagged my memory. Then it dawned on me. Barely yet distinctly visible under what appeared to be a thin layer of make up was a birthmark. A purplish birthmark—a port-wine stain I'd wager—marred one cheek. Was the man next to me the Chicago mobster featured on
Vanished
?

Impossible. It couldn't be.

Or could it? Was the mystery mobster really Wally Porter, not Tex Mahoney?

Had Becca, after watching her favorite TV show, put two and two together and come up with four? Had she threatened to expose the man? Extort or blackmail a vicious gangster? Had Wally Porter, aka Louis Coccetti, aka Vino, aka master barbecue Judge, and not Tex Mahoney, murdered Becca Dapkins?