Kill 'Em with Cayenne (6 page)

Danny slid the salad into a bag and rang up my order. “Tony's attracting a lot of new customers with the home-style Italian cooking. His momma makes all the pasta. Gina does the tiramisu and cannolis. What's not to like?”

“Thanks, Danny. Have a good one,” I said as I left.

I inhaled the spicy scent of Tony's superb marinara sauce. My stomach rumbled in appreciation. I hoped McBride was in a sharing frame of mind when I arrived at his office bearing gifts. The Brandywine Creek Police Department was only a couple short blocks away, so I opted to walk. All I needed was a nice bottle of red wine to complete my menu, but knowing McBride as I did, he wasn't the type to drink on duty. I shoved open the double glass doors and stepped into the inner sanctum.

Precious Blessing, her hair in elaborate braids and her ample figure stuffed into a uniform a size too small, manned the front desk. “Well, lookee here,” she drawled in a voice sweet as sorghum. “Today must've been declared National Feed-a-Cop-Pizza Day.”

I frowned. “What do you mean?”

Precious eyed the box I carried. “Just my way of sayin' that if you brought that for the chief, you're a mite late. He already done had supper.”

“Ohh,” I said, feeling my spirits deflate. Although loathe to admit, even to myself, I looked forward to our … encounters, I always found them … energizing … for lack of a better word.

“Sorry, sugar.” Precious's round, brown face mirrored her sympathy. “Miss Barbie-doll beat you to the punch. She brought the chief a pepperoni mushroom pizza not more 'n a half hour ago. Heard the chief say he was hungry enough to eat the box.”

“Swell.” I set the pizza and salad on one of the battered wooden benches rimming the front of the room. “She still in there with him?”

“She ought to be off mindin' her own business. I'll buzz the chief and let him know you're waitin' on him.”

I plunked myself down next to the pizza box and picked up a dog-eared copy of
Field & Stream
. I flipped through the pages while Precious announced my presence, but couldn't seem to concentrate. My eyes roamed around the shabby surroundings. A large wall calendar from a local lumberyard adorned one wall; a bulletin board with Maybelle's flyer along with the FBI's Most Wanted posters occupied the other. Except for the addition of the wall calendar, nothing else had changed since McBride had taken over the role of police chief from Reba Mae's uncle through marriage, Joe Johnson.

“Doesn't look like McBride's hired an interior decorator since he accepted the job,” I commented.

“No, but he's makin' progress. Just last week, he got the city council to cough up funds for a couple cans of paint. Place ain't seen a paintbrush since Clinton was president.”

I idly leafed through ads for fishing rods and hunting rifles. “So how's Dorinda's daughter? She have her baby yet?”

“Not yet.” Precious's face crinkled with worry. “If she don't have it soon, doc's doin' a C-section. Dorinda always said Lorrinda's hips were wide enough to push out a linebacker, but I guess she overestimated.”

I winced. “Wide hips or not, that's a lot of baby.”

Precious cocked her head to the side and listened. Then, I heard it, too, the
click-clack
of high heels against tile. Glancing up, I watched Barbie Quinlan sashay down the hall. Upon seeing me in the waiting area, she smiled. Her shrewd gaze took in the pizza box next to me on the bench.

“What's that old saying?” she mused. “Something about great minds thinking alike?”

Feeling at a disadvantage, I rose to my feet. That didn't help one iota. The blonde, dressed for the occasion in mushroom-and-pepperoni chic—formfitting black capris and leopard knit top—towered over me. I wished I'd taken time to change out of my work clothes. Maybe spritz on some perfume. No doubt I smelled of cinnamon, cloves, and nutmeg. A scent more suitable for a gingersnap than a femme fatale.

“I didn't expect to see you here,” I said in a poor excuse for clever repartee.

“I hoped to persuade Wyatt to give me an interview about what transpired today.”

“And did you?”

The woman smiled, the cat with a canary kind of smile. “Not yet.”

“Why would he allow you to interview him?”

Barbie shrugged. “Wyatt and I go back a long way. I thought he might be willing to do a favor for old times' sake.”

I clenched my jaw to keep from asking her how well she and McBride knew each other. And if they were planning to pick up where they'd left off. But I didn't. That would make it look as though I were jealous. And I wasn't. McBride's love life was none of my business. After all, he was single—a widower actually—and free to date whomever he wished.

I shifted my weight from one foot to the other. “I thought you were in town to film the barbecue festival. Only thing McBride has to do with the festival is keep the peace.”

“You've gotta be joking,” Barbie snorted. “This whole thing is turning into a journalistic sideshow. It's a developing story, and I intend to stay on top of things.”

“Dottie Hemmings, the mayor's wife, said her husband's worried you'll show your hometown in an unfavorable light. Hinted you had an agenda. Any truth to her theory?”

“Dottie Hemmings?” Barbie scoffed. “That old biddy? All she cares about is keeping her hubby's reputation squeaky clean. She's afraid a dead body in the town square will reflect poorly on him and his fair city.” Dismissing the subject, she pointed a red-nailed fingertip at the rapidly cooling pizza. “Interesting,” she purred. “I didn't know you and Wyatt had that kind of a relationship.”

I could feel my face heat. “What kind of relationship is that?”

“The let's-chat-over-pizza variety—especially considering you're CJ's ex.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Those two have been at each other's throats since they were boys. Just because CJ dumped you doesn't mean the guy wants to watch you cozy up to his old nemesis. Don't be fooled, honey.” She lowered her voice. “Wyatt's just using you to rattle CJ's cage.”

My jaw dropped. Words deserted me. I'd known from the get-go there was no love lost between the two men. But it never once occurred to me that Wyatt McBride and CJ might be playing a game of one-upmanship with me as the pawn. I didn't believe it for a New York minute; still the thought rankled.

Barbie seemed pleased at my reaction. Tossing her long hair over her shoulder, she sauntered toward the exit. “Bye-bye.”

“Don't pay that bimbo no nevermind,” Precious counseled. “She's the type who likes to cause trouble. I've seen her kind in action before.”

“Thanks.” I sounded as dispirited as I felt.

“Chief just signaled for you to report to his office,” Precious said moments later. “You need anythin', just speak up, you heah?”

“Yes, ma'am.” Precious's offer coaxed a smile from me. I placed the pizza box on the countertop in front of her. “Help yourself.”

“Don't tempt me.” She shook her head until the colorful beads on her braids rattled “I'm on a diet. Got my eye on a new man—friend of my brother Bubba. Had me a Lean Cuisine and a diet soda when I had my break. Just leave the pizza. I'll guard it for you.”

I knew the way to McBride's office from previous visits.
Time to put on your big-girl panties and not let Barbie's words affect you,
I lectured myself as I walked down the hall. Drawing a deep breath, I knocked on his door, then entered without waiting for an invitation. McBride glanced up from behind a mountain of paperwork on his desk. “Hey,” he said.

“You told me to come by later to sign my statement.”

“Right, right.” He shuffled through a stack of papers until he found the one he was looking for and handed it to me. “Read it over carefully,” he instructed. “Make sure it corresponds to what you told me earlier. Then sign it.”

“All righty.” He sounded a bit testy, so I didn't want to try his patience further. Clearly, he was feeling the pressure of a long day. Sinking down in the chair opposite him, I read the typed report and slid it back to him unsigned.

“What's wrong?” he asked, skewering me with a look from his frosty blues.

“I can't sign this.”

“And why can't you?”

Some folks might've squirmed at his tone, but I held my ground. “Because the statement is incorrect. It should read that Piper Prescott's dog, Casey, found the body and
not
Piper Prescott found the body.”

McBride appeared as though he wanted to argue, then changed his mind. “Fine,” he agreed. “I'll have Precious correct your statement to read: ‘Mrs. Prescott states her dog, Casey, discovered the body.' Is it accurate to include that Mrs. Prescott proceeded to make the nine-one-one call since her pet was otherwise occupied being a cadaver dog?”

“No call to get sarcastic,” I retorted.

“I'm not being sarcastic. I'm merely aiming for accuracy, since you always seem to think I'm in need of correcting.”

“Only when it's necessary.”

He huffed out a breath. “You're doing it again—correcting me.”

When I refused to engage in a verbal sparring match, he issued orders to Precious via an intercom to make the requested changes. I studied him covertly. Even though his navy-blue uniform was as crisp as it had been that morning, his face looked tired. I felt an unbidden flood of sympathy for the man and his job. My eyes chanced to fall on a handful of paint chips in various colors at the edge of his desk. “Getting ready to give this place a face-lift?” I asked to lighten the mood.

He appeared puzzled at first, but his expression cleared when he realized what I was referring to. “Yeah, it's long overdue. Getting money for a couple gallons of paint was tougher than asking to pay for a root canal out of petty cash. I even offered to do the painting myself.”

”So,” I said, examining the samples, “what color did you decide on.”

“It's a toss-up between Belgian Waffle and Banana Cream Pie.”

“Mmm.” I studied first one swatch, then the other. “I'd pick the Belgian Waffle. Maybe use Whipped Cream for the trim.”

“I take it Whipped Cream is a paint color.”

“Right up there with Banana Cream Pie. I used the color to paint the woodwork in my apartment, if you'd like to see what it looks like.”

A ghost of a smile flickered across his mouth. “I'll have to check it out one of these days.”

Once again, I felt my face flush. I'd brazenly just gone and invited the man to my apartment. With Becca dead was I going to be the next “hussy”? Thankfully, I heard Precious's footsteps in the hall and was spared further self-flagellation.

“Here you go, Chief,” she said, handing him the edited version of my statement. “Seein' as how you have a long night ahead of you, I put on a fresh pot of coffee. I'll bring some soon's it's done. What about you, Piper? You want a cup?”

“Thanks, Precious, but I can't stay.”

She left and I scanned the changes she'd made, scrawled my name at the bottom, and shoved it over to him. “There you go. Signed, sealed, and delivered.”

McBride added it to a folder, then leaned back in his chair and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Hard to believe there's been two murders in the short time I've been in office. A regular crime spree. Mayor's demanding to know if someone tampered with the drinking water.”

Murder?
A
Titanic
-size iceberg seemed lodged in my chest. “You're absolutely certain Becca was murdered?”

“No doubt about it,” he sighed. “The medical examiner just faxed over preliminary findings. Becca Dapkins's death appears to have been a robbery gone south. Jewelry gone. Handbag missing.”

“Becca wasn't rich. She worked at a low-paying job. Who'd want to rob her?”

“We're in the process of checking things out. In some cases, the killer often turns out to be the husband or significant other.”

I stared at McBride in disbelief. “Surely you don't think Buzz Oliver had anything to do with Becca's death? He wouldn't hurt a fly. Well, actually that's not true,” I admitted in the spirit of full disclosure. “The man
is
in the pest control business. Termites and scorpions are normally his targets, not the woman he's dating.”

“You'd be shocked at the inhumanity people inflict on one another—even those they profess to love.”

Silence permeated the room for a long moment. It was obvious McBride had seen more than his share of death at the hands of loved ones. Finally, I cleared my throat. “Did the medical examiner give the cause of death?”

McBride nodded grimly. “Becca Dapkins was bludgeoned.”

“Bludgeoned…?” I gasped. “Did you find the murder weapon?”

“No, not yet. Murder weapon might not be so easy to find in this case.”

“Why is that?”

McBride drummed his fingers on the desk. “The ME found traces of fat and connective tissue in the head wound.”

“What kind of weapon would leave fat and connective tissue behind?” I wondered aloud.

“The ME's running more tests, but he's convinced it was a beef brisket.”

“Unbelievable,” I murmured. “Becca Dapkins killed with a cheap cut of meat.”

 

C
HAPTER
8

“P
IZZA DELIVERY,”
I sang out.

“Someone's got their wires crossed. I didn't order—” Reba Mae ended her tirade mid-sentence at finding me on her doorstep. “Piper, what on earth?”

“Hungry?” I asked when she stepped aside

“Well, yeah, kinda sort of,” she admitted, eyeing the box in my hand. “I was just about to fix myself a peanut butter sandwich. The boys are playin' in a softball tournament tonight. Said not to bother fixin' 'em supper. They'd grab a burger after the game.”