Kill 'Em with Cayenne (5 page)

 

C
HAPTER
6

C
USTOMERS LINED THE
sidewalk waiting for me to open. To borrow one of my dad's favorite Yogi Berra quips, it was déjà vu all over again. A repeat of my grand opening of Spice It Up! Then, as now, my grand opening was made even grander by the fact I'd stumbled upon a dead body. That was definitely something I didn't wish to make a habit.

After McBride had finally allowed me to leave the crime scene, I'd raced home, shin splints forgotten. I'd barely had time to shower, blow my hair dry, and dump Kibbles 'n Bits into Casey's bowl before hurrying downstairs. I left Casey in the apartment curled on his favorite rug, apparently having had enough excitement for one day.

I was relieved my daughter, Lindsey, was visiting friends and not caught up in all the turmoil. My son, Chad, was too hell-bent on entering medical school to pay attention to any local news. Not even his mother finding a corpse could upset his focus

The blood in my veins practically fizzed with an odd mix of adrenaline and dread. Questions buzzed through my brain like bees at a picnic.
Who'd want to harm Becca Dapkins?
topped my list.
Why was she killed?
I was still mulling these over when I switched the sign on my front door to
OPEN
.

“Piper, dear!” My ex-mother-in-law, Melly Prescott, rushed in. “What a terrible ordeal it must have been, finding poor Becca in the azaleas.”

I mustered a smile. “I'm fine, Melly.”

“Of course you're not fine,” she chastised me. “That's why I dropped everything and hurried over to help. Where's my apron?”

Not waiting for a response, Melly made straightaway for the counter, knowing I kept a stack of cheery yellow aprons with chili pepper logos on a shelf below. Melly Prescott was Southern to the core. Prim and proper on the outside in her signature twin set and pearls, she was a steel magnolia on the inside. Woe to anyone—or anything—that threatened to harm those she held close to her heart. To my surprise, since my divorce from CJ she'd often sided with me, and not her son when it came to disciplining Lindsey and often volunteered to help in the shop.

A trio of women streamed into my shop with gossip on their minds. Dottie Hemmings led the charge, trailed by Diane Cloune, a tall, athletic brunette in golfing togs, and Gerilee Barker, wife of Pete the butcher.

Dottie, plump and blond, her hair teased sky-high in a sixties look, zeroed in on me and enveloped me in a motherly hug. Hugs were dispensed more freely than handshakes in this part of the country. It was a habit I'd grown accustomed to after being raised in the more conservative Midwest. “Piper, you poor thing,” Dottie cooed. “Discovering Becca planted among the azaleas must have been a dreadful shock. Shouldn't you be upstairs resting?”

I disengaged myself from Dottie's embrace, knowing her flowery scent would cling to my clothes for the rest of the day. “I'm fine, Dottie.”

She clucked her tongue. “You're such a brave little girl.”

“Good thing the azaleas weren't in bloom. No telling how long Becca might have laid there unnoticed,” Diane commented.

Gerilee quickly agreed. “With all the pink Becca liked to wear, she would have blended right in with the flowers.”

“Gee,” I murmured. “Lucky for Becca some psychopath didn't get to kill her in April.”

The women regarded me worriedly. No doubt trying to differentiate whether I was verging on hysteria or merely being sarcastic.

“Why don't I put the kettle on for a pot of tea?” Melly chirped. “Chamomile, I think. Nothing like a nice cup of chamomile tea to soothe the nerves, I always say.”

Needing to keep myself occupied, I picked up a feather duster and ran it over a shelf of exotic salt and peppercorns from the far corners of the globe. Melly bustled to the rear of the shop, where I heard her running water into a kettle.

“I heard someone remark it might have been an aneurysm,” Gerilee, an attractive sixty-something woman with short wavy brown hair, volunteered.

Diane nodded vigorously. “My uncle Ray died of an aneurysm. He was sitting in his recliner watching golf one minute and dead the next. Doctor told my aunt the thing in his belly was probably big as a baseball before it burst.”

“Might've been all the chemicals Becca was exposed to in her job with the water department,” Dottie suggested.

Gerilee rolled her eyes. “You're forgetting, Dottie, that Becca worked in an office—not a sewage treatment plant.”

“Oh, right,” Dottie muttered, then turned her attention back to me. “Could you tell anything just by looking at Becca, what happened to the poor thing?”

I concentrated on a speck of dust hiding behind a jar of pink Himalayan peppercorns. “I really can't say. I expect McBride will let people know once he hears from the medical examiner.”

“Well, my husband the mayor is worried sick about the whole incident.” Dottie smoothed a helmet of blond curls that could have withstood a hurricane. “Harvey predicts this will stir up all sorts of negative publicity. Definitely bad for barbecue, he said.”

“It might be bad for barbecue, but it's even worse for Becca,” I snapped.

Diane and Gerilee traded nervous glances. Dottie, however, remained undaunted by my outburst. “Please don't think I'm not heartbroken about the terrible fate befallen our dear Becca. In fact, I'm planning to bring an extra-nice dish to her memorial service.”

“Do you know when that might be?” Diane twirled her ponytail around a finger. “I'm playing in the member-guest tournament at the club, and I've already paid the entrance fee. I'd hate to have to chose between them.”

Melly rejoined the group carrying a tray with five Styrofoam cups and a plate of cookies. “I thought we could all use a calming influence. I brought some gingersnaps I made yesterday. They're Lindsey's favorite.”

Leave it to Melly to turn a solemn occasion into a tea party. Though often irritated with my former mother-in-law, I was rarely angry. She tended to be outspoken, but her intentions were good.

No sooner had these thoughts passed through my mind when Melly berated me, “Really, dear, Styrofoam is
so
tacky. You need to have some pretty china teacups on hand for when you entertain guests. As a matter of fact, I think I might have some at home that you can have.”

Gerilee helped herself to tea and cookies. “Becca was in my bunco group. I met her son and daughter during their last visit. They weren't a close-knit family, but her children were shocked at the news of her passing nevertheless. When I offered to plan a nice memorial service for their mother, they were pleased to accept. All they asked is to let them know the details so they can book flights.”

“I've just had a marvelous idea,” Dottie beamed happily. “Wouldn't it be lovely if everyone honored Becca's memory by bringing a cream of mushroom soup dish to the reception? Everyone knows how fond Becca was of soup recipes.”

“Excellent idea, Dottie,” Melly said, quick to jump on the cream of mushroom soup bandwagon. “I have the perfect recipe in mind.”

Diane sipped her tea. “Who do you suppose will be Becca's successor with green bean casserole? She brought it to every single covered-dish supper since she moved back to Brandywine Creek.”

The thought of a successor boggled my mind. I sank down on a stool behind the counter to contemplate the conundrum. It was better than wondering why Becca died and how. I sipped my tea and, remembering I didn't have breakfast, helped myself to one of Melly's gingersnaps.

“Speaking of cream of mushroom soup,” Gerilee said, “do you think Buzz might've been bearing a grudge? Pete swears the man blamed Becca's cooking on his recent gallbladder attack.”

“Buzz needed emergency surgery,” Melly recalled.

Dottie brushed cookie crumbs from her flowered polyester blouse. “And no surgery is risk-free. Buzz could've died—and all because of a can of soup.”

Diane smiled a sly smile. “Last time I saw Buzz and Becca they were arguing. It wouldn't surprise me if Buzz had tired of Becca and regretted breaking up with Maybelle. Let's face it, Becca could be demanding. Next to her, Maybelle's a saint.”

Interesting.
“Do you think Maybelle would take Buzz back if he asked?”

“Yes, of course,” Melly insisted.

“No way,” Gerilee contradicted.

Gerilee's answer surprised me. “What makes you say that?” I asked.

“I've known Maybelle for years. She's not the sharing type.”

Further speculation on Buzz Oliver and Maybelle Humphries's love life halted when the door opened and a stylish woman in her midfifties with short dove-gray hair and an infectious grin entered.

“Hey, y'all,” Felicity Driscoll sang out, waving a sheet of paper in one hand.

“Hey, Felicity,” we chorused in return.

Felicity was the owner of the Turner-Driscoll House, a newly opened bed-and-breakfast in the historical district. The house had been in Felicity's husband's family for generations but had fallen into disrepair during the last decade or two. When Felicity's husband, a successful neurologist in Birmingham, Alabama, passed away suddenly, she packed up her antiques and moved to Brandywine Creek. As someone who loved people, loved to entertain, and loved to play hostess, Felicity found running a B and B a perfect fit.

She handed me the list she held. “Piper, one of my guests needs some special spices for a dish he's preparing. I hope you have them in stock.”

I scanned the sheet. Cayenne pepper, Hungarian-style sweet paprika, black Tellicherry and white Sarawak peppercorns, cumin, and Turkish—not Mexican—oregano. “Your guest seems to know his way around a kitchen. His requests are quite specific.”

“Yes.” Felicity smiled. “He wasn't satisfied with the spices in my pantry. He lectured me on the importance of fresh spice and the folly of buying in bulk.”

I picked up one of the small baskets I kept handy and began to circulate among the shelves. “This shouldn't take long.”

“You and Piper both took a pretty big risk starting businesses in this economy,” Dottie commented. “How're things going, Felicity? Are you managing to break even?”

“Dottie, really!” Melly interjected. “That's not polite. Stop being such a busybody.”

Dottie dismissed the criticism with a flick of her wrist. “Inquiring minds want to know such things. How do you know if you don't ask?”

“No offense taken, Dottie,” Felicity said. “Thanks to the upcoming barbecue festival, I'm pleased to report business is booming.”

“So who do you have staying at your place?” Diane asked. “Anyone important?”

“All my guests are important,” Felicity said, her tone prim. “Every single one.”

“That didn't come out the way I intended,” Diane said, trying to backpedal. “What I meant was, are any of your guests playing a … pivotal … role in the contest?”

“Well, there's Wally Porter, a charming and cultured man, who's a certified master judge.” Felicity ticked them off on her fingers as she spoke. “Then, there's Tex Mahoney, a champion pitmaster, winner of various barbecue festivals all over the Southeast. And last, but by no means least, Ms. Barbie Quinlan, better known as Barbie Q, the host of a new cooking show. You might recognize her, ladies. She said that she grew up here in Brandywine Creek.”

Melly frowned. “Funny, I don't remember any families by the name of Quinlan.”

I stuck my head out from around a display of chili peppers. “She was Barbara Bunker back then.”

“Barbara Bunker…? My word.” Melly toyed with her ever-present pearls. “Never thought she'd return to Brandywine Creek.”

“Well, she's back—and with a vengeance.” I located the last item on Felicity's list and dropped it into the basket.

“My husband the mayor mentioned she was filming all the goings-on this morning. He's afraid once word gets out about Becca, it'll keep folks away. Brandywine Creek will get a reputation for murder like New York City or Chicago.”

“Or Detroit,” I said as I started to tally the order. “By the way, Felicity, what dish is your guest making?”

“Brisket,” she said with a laugh. “Tex called it his Braggin' Rights Brisket.”

 

C
HAPTER
7

T
HE WORKDAY WAS
finally over. It was now after six o'clock. Time to pay McBride a visit. Guilt had niggled at me throughout the day for drinking all his morning coffee. The poor guy sure had looked as though he needed a strong jolt of caffeine. Probably hadn't had a chance to grab a bite to eat all day. I decided to bring him a peace offering of sorts. Before I could reconsider, I reached for the phone and placed a take-out order. Twenty minutes later, I arrived at the Pizza Palace.

“Hey there, Miz Prescott,” Danny Boyd, a slight young man with pale-blue eyes behind John Lennon–style glasses, a wispy goatee, and a wannabe mustache, greeted me with a friendly smile. “Just took your pie out of the oven.”

“It smells wonderful,” I said. “Suppose you could add a Greek salad to my order?”

He shoved his glasses higher on the bridge of his nose. “Sure thing.”

“And don't be stingy on the feta.” I watched Danny heap lettuce into a plastic carryout container, then add tomatoes, black olives, and slivers of red onion. “How's business at the Palace since Gina and Tony opened their new place?”

Danny glanced up from his salad making. “Couldn't be better. The Pizza Palace is strictly carryout. Pizza, subs, calzones. If people are in the mood for sit-down Italian, they go to Antonio's. Tony's got a great menu. His lasagna's the best.”

“I'll keep that in mind.” One of these days, I knew I'd have to bite the bullet and give the new restaurant a try. Tony Deltorro and I haven't exactly been on the best of terms since I gave his name to McBride as a possible suspect in a homicide. Funny how little things like that damage a relationship.