Kill 'Em with Cayenne (7 page)

I headed for her kitchen. “Well, since that's the case, can I interest you in a pepperoni-and-mushroom pie with a side Greek salad?”

“Heck yeah. How about a nice glass of merlot to help wash it down?”

“You don't have to twist my arm. A glass of wine is just what the doctor ordered after the day I had.” I turned the dial on Reba Mae's oven and set the temperature to low. “I need to pop this baby into the oven to reheat. It's been setting for nearly an hour in McBride's waiting room while I reviewed the statement I gave this morning.”

Reba Mae got out a baking sheet and watched me slide the pizza onto it. “I take it my favorite lawman wasn't in the mood for pizza.”

“Actually, I arrived too late.”

“How's that?” Reba asked over her shoulder as she took plates from a cupboard.

“Seems like the Cooking Network's shining star, aka Barbie Q, had already brought him a piping-hot pizza.” I found silverware and napkins and proceeded to set the table. I knew Reba Mae's kitchen like the back of my hand. And she knew mine. That was part of being BFFs.

“What the…? Barbie brought him pizza? How well do the two know each other?”

“Quite well, judging from my front-row seat at their reunion tour,” I replied.

Reba Mae worked the cork out of a bottle of merlot and poured us each a glass. “I'd bet my last bottle of peroxide that woman's up to somethin'.”

“She said she dropped by to ask McBride for an interview.”

“And you believed her?”

I shrugged. “Yes and no. On one hand, Barbie's ambitious and thinks a dead body in the town square might be a big break career-wise. Yet on the other side of the coin, she and McBride share a history, so her interest in him might be strictly personal.”

While Reba Mae divvied up the salad, my eyes wandered around her cozy kitchen. Like Reba Mae herself, the room was unpretentious and straightforward. Formica countertops, aging appliances, and a no-wax vinyl floor. In spite of her weakness for flashy clothes and even flashier shoes, Reba Mae pinched pennies.

I took a sip of wine and reminisced. Once upon a time, we'd been next-door neighbors. We'd bonded over teething, potty training, and
General Hospital
. Then CJ's struggling law practice took off and, in keeping with his image, we'd moved to a bigger house in a newer development. The one thing that hadn't changed though was mine and Reba Mae's friendship. That had remained constant. Not even a country club membership, fancy car, or gold Visa changed that. Reba Mae's twins, Clay and Caleb, were best friends too with my Chad and treated Lindsey like the baby sister they never had.

When Butch died in a tragic accident while bass fishing, Reba Mae discovered they were deep in credit card debt. Butch was a great guy but not one to worry about tomorrow. He thought he'd live to a ripe old age. After things settled down, I'd loaned Reba Mae money for beauty school. Later, I helped her finance the Klassy Kut and let CJ think I'd used the money for a tummy tuck. She'd paid back every dime—with interest.

“Might as well start while the pizza warms up.” Reba Mae set a plate piled high with salad in front of me. “Dig in.”

I speared a cherry tomato. “Mmm. I'm famished.”

“Any chance McBride mention what killed Becca?”

“More like a ‘who' than a ‘what.'”

“Who … as in a person?” Reba Mae missed the cherry tomato she aimed at and it skittered across the table.

I picked it up and popped it into my mouth. “That would be correct. The medical examiner said she was bludgeoned.”

Reba Mae stared at me, her fork poised halfway to her mouth. “No kiddin'.”

“Even more to the point, the ME's almost certain the murder weapon—get ready for this—was a beef brisket.”

Her salad forgotten, Reba Mae set down her fork down and reached for her wine. “Wow,” she said after taking a gulp. “I wasn't expectin' that.”

“I would've been less surprised if she'd been beaned with a can of soup.” I got up and removed the pizza from the oven. “All this publicity will be bad for the barbecue festival.”

“Or it might work just the opposite.” Reba Mae helped herself to a slice. “Nothin' like morbid curiosity to draw a crowd.”

“Well, if Barbie Quinlan has a say this town will turn into a three-ring circus. She fancies herself Lois Lane, girl reporter.” I bit into pizza smothered in gooey mozzarella. “Then fade to gray as she and Wyatt McBride ride off into the sunset.”

“Think you're makin' too much out of two old friends seein' each other again?”

“You don't have to know Morse code to interpret the signals she was sending out. I don't know why I'm obsessing over it. I already have a terrific man in my life,” I said, referring to Doug Winters, the very nice vet who not only had saved Casey's life but also bought expensive saffron from my shop.

“There you go,” Reba Mae said. “Doug's not only a great guy, but he likes to cook. What more could a girl put on her wish list?”

“You're absolutely right. Doug is … special. It was my lucky day when he happened to waltz into Spice It Up! Not only that, he's been a positive influence on Lindsey since she started working part-time at his animal clinic. Because of him, she talks about becoming a veterinarian one day. Speaking of Doug and cooking,” I said, reaching for my wineglass, “he called to tell me he entered the backyard division of the competition. Said he's been experimenting with mopping sauces. Wanted to know if I'd object if he asked Lindsey to be part of his team.”

“Sounds like a good idea if you want my opinion. It'll help keep Lindsey's mind off breaking up with that no-'count boyfriend of hers.” Reba Mae took another slice, then pushed the pan in my direction. “Does McBride have any suspects?”

“It's still early yet. He mentioned it might've been a botched robbery. Becca's jewelry was missing and so was her purse. He also said something to the effect that husbands and significant others were often the guilty parties. I gathered he was going to question Buzz.”

“Buzz?” Reba Mae topped off our wine. “McBride surely can't think Buzz would harm Becca?”

I shrugged. “I'm no mind reader, but he might have heard talk that Buzz blamed Becca for his gallbladder attack. After all, she was the reason he had to have emergency surgery. The quiet ones like Buzz are the types you have to watch. They keep things bottled up and then … pow! They explode.”

Reba Mae rolled her eyes. “Where did you hear that? Dr. Phil?”

I kept silent, too embarrassed to admit that might well have been my source.

Reba Mae leaned back, wineglass in hand. “Gossip goin' around the Klassy Kut has it that Becca was spittin' mad 'cause Buzz paid more attention to Maybelle at the Baptist church ice-cream social than to her.”

“Blame all his attention on the fact that Maybelle baked her to-die-for Hummingbird Cake. Not a soul alive can resist her Hummingbird Cake. She's been asked for the recipe dozens of times, but refuses to share.”

“When it comes to cooking, Becca can't compete with a five-year-old, much less Maybelle. Without a can opener, she's as helpless as a fish out of water.”

“Change that to past tense,” I reminded Reba Mae.

“Duly noted,” Reba Mae agreed somberly.

“At any rate, McBride intends to call Buzz down as part of the official murder investigation.”

Reba Mae was about to comment further when the back door swung open.

“Hey, Mama,” Clay said, then turned to me. “Hey, Miz Piper,”

“Hey yourself,” I said, giving him the once-over. Reba Mae's boys were big, strapping lads with her dark hair and good looks and their daddy's pretty hazel eyes. The easiest way to tell them apart was by their hair. Clay favored his cut short while Caleb's, much to his mother's chagrin, reached almost to his shoulders.

“Your mama's going to have to use her bag of tricks to get that softball uniform clean,” I told him, taking in the sweat stains under his arms and the Georgia red clay ground into the knees.

“Naw, Mama's a mean one.” He grinned. “She makes me and my brother do our own laundry. Said she's trainin' us to be good husbands.”

“Darn right,” Reba Mae retorted. “You're home early, Son.”

Clay fixated on the half-eaten pizza on the table. “I'd sure hate to see that fine-lookin' pizza go to waste when there's starvin' children in the world.”

“Charity begins at home,” I said, shoving it toward him.

“You might want to save some for your brother,” Reba Mae commented as she watched her boy wolf down a slice.

“Caleb hooked up with a cute little blonde in a red halter top,” Clay said around a mouthful. “She offered to buy him a burger.”

Reba Mae laughed and shook her head. “That boy is so easily bribed, it's pitiful.”

Clay reached for another slice. “Could have told the girl to save her money. It was a done deal with just the halter top. Take me for instance; I'm just the opposite when it comes to the ladies.”

“How's that?” I asked, forever curious to learn the workings of a man's mind.

Pizza finished, Clay headed for the fridge and pulled out a gallon of milk.

“No drinkin' straight from the jug,” Reba Mae was quick to admonish. “Use a glass.”

“Didn't I tell you Mama was a meanie?” He winked at me but took a glass from the cupboard. “Now, as to my technique with women, I'm more subtle than Caleb. I'm taking cues from Chief McBride and playing hard to get.”

“McBride?”

“Yep.” He downed the milk, then refilled his glass. “I've seen how women look at him all smiley-like. He could have his pick, but he pretends not to notice. Drives the gals crazy.”

Hmm,
I thought to myself. I hope I didn't fall in the same category all “smiley-like” and calf-eyed. If Barbie Q wanted him, she could have him. I intended to play it safe and stick with Doug. He might not be tall, dark, and hunky, but he was a gold medalist when it came to kissing. His kisses made me weak in the knees. Besides that, he was sweet, thoughtful. And he listened, really listened, whenever I talked. What could be sexier than a man who hung on to your every word?

Reba Mae got up and cleared the dishes. “Clay, you still haven't mentioned who won tonight's game.”

“We did. Cloune Motor Cougars beat the Bugs-B-Gone Braves four to two.” He placed his glass in the dishwasher. “Say,” he said as a new thought occurred to him, “either of you know why the Chamber of Commerce was closed today? Is it some sort of holiday?”

“That's odd.” I looked to Reba Mae for confirmation, but she shrugged. “The Chamber's usually open nine to five Monday through Friday and till noon on Saturdays.”

“I stopped by to pick up some flyers like my boss asked, but the place was locked up tighter 'n a drum.”

Reba Mae began loading the dishwasher. “Perhaps Maybelle came down with the flu, though I've never known her to be sickly.”

Frowning, I tapped my nails on the tabletop. “I'm pretty sure I saw her this morning on the sidewalk near the square.”

“Did she look like she was ailin'?”

I closed my eyes briefly, trying to picture Maybelle the last time I'd seen her. “Now that you mention it, her complexion seemed even more pasty than usual. And she seemed distant … distracted. I don't think she even noticed me.”

“Probably upset about Becca.”

“I'll try the Chamber again tomorrow,” Clay said. “Right now, I'm headin' for the shower.”

Grabbing a dishrag, Reba Mae wiped down the counters. “It's not like Maybelle to close up shop.”

I stared into the dregs at the bottom of my wineglass. “Someone—I think it might've been Dottie Hemmings—made a comment that Maybelle wasn't the type who liked to share what was hers.”

Reba Mae stopped wiping. “Such as Buzz…?”

“You don't suppose…?”

Reba Mae instantly read my mind. “No, of course not,” she replied. “Maybelle wouldn't step on a spider.”

“Good point,” I said. I felt guilty as sin that such a thought even crossed my mind. “If Buzz has a solid alibi for the time of the murder, suspicion will shift to Maybelle in a heartbeat. Mark my words, she'll be the next one lined up in McBride's sights—and in the court of public opinion. Maybelle's a friend. I'd hate like heck to see that happen. I know what it's like to be wrongly accused.”

“I'm worried about her,” Reba Mae admitted. “You said she didn't look well when you saw her earlier.”

I jumped up and grabbed my purse. “Let's go.”

Reba Mae tossed the dishrag into the sink. “Where we goin'?”

“We're off to visit a sick friend.”

 

C
HAPTER
9

M
AYBELLE
H
UMPHRIES LIVED
in a brick ranch-style home with black shutters and neatly trimmed shrubs. Her wide front porch held two white wicker rockers—rockers are a requisite for Southern homes—and several clay pots filled with bright red geraniums.

I rang the bell while Reba Mae opted for the less subtle approach, which consisted of pounding on the door. Between the two of us, the din was loud enough to wake the dead.

No response.

Disappointed, we stared at each other in the gathering darkness, trying to decide on a course of action. “Maybe she's not home,” Reba Mae suggested.

I pointed toward the side of the house. “Then how do you account for her Honda in the carport?”

“Oh, yeah, right. S'pose she's sleepin'?”

“Not with the racket we've been making.” I jabbed the doorbell again.

“Could be she went for a little exercise,” Reba Mae offered. “It's a nice night for a walk.”

I stood on tiptoe and peered through the small diamond-shaped pane of glass set into the wood door. “Looks like the TV's still on.”