Kill 'Em with Cayenne (9 page)

Humans forgotten, Casey scrambled after them.

“How was your seminar in Atlanta?” I asked. “Learn any new tricks?”

“One or two.” He folded his arms across his chest, all traces of humor vanishing. “What's all this talk I hear about you finding a dead body? I learned about it from the clerk at the Gas and Go on my way into town.”

I sighed. “Technically, Casey is the one who discovered a body, not me.” I then proceeded to relate the details of finding Becca Dapkins, pretty in pink and deader 'n a doornail, under the azaleas.

He let out a low whistle when I finished my story. “That's quite a feat for a pup his age. The little mutt's got a good nose. You might want to consider enrolling him in cadaver-dog training. I can give you some information if you're interested.”

I held up both hands in protest and stepped away from the vet. “Thanks, but no thanks. I don't intend to make a career out of finding bodies—and neither does Casey. I've already found more than the recommended quota.”

“It must have been a terrible experience,” Doug sympathized. Reaching out, he trailed his fingers down my cheek. “You all right?”

“‘Terrible' doesn't begin to describe what it was like.” I resisted the urge to rest my head on his shoulder and assume the role of damsel in distress, but I was made of sterner stuff. Instead, I smiled gamely. “I'm thinking of swearing off jogging and listing my gecko-green running shoes on eBay.”

“Did you know the woman well?”

I picked up a jar of crystallized ginger, then returned it to the shelf. “I knew her, but I wouldn't say we were friends. Becca left Brandywine Creek years ago, but after her divorce she came back to a house her grandmother had bequeathed her. She worked for the water department, but I don't think she was happy.”

“The clerk at the gas station mentioned she was seeing someone.”

“Buzz Oliver.”

“Buzz Oliver the exterminator?”

“That's him.” I wandered over to the counter where I'd left a stack of mail. “Before Becca came back to Brandywine Creek, Buzz was engaged to Maybelle Humphries. You might know Maybelle. She manages the Chamber of Commerce.”

Hands in his pockets, Doug strolled over to join me. “Yeah, I know Maybelle. We met when I was establishing my business. Efficient, friendly, helpful. She's a nice lady. I like her. I happened to know of a cute little calico looking for a good home and tried to convince her it would make the perfect pet. Alas.” He chuckled ruefully. “Maybelle seemed interested, but her allergy to cats stood in the way.”

“Poor Maybelle.” I idly sorted through mail comprised mainly of charities' asking for donations. “Her allergies were giving her grief yesterday. So much, in fact, that she closed up shop for the day, went home, and said she climbed into bed.”

“Hmm, that's strange,” Doug said, rubbing his jaw. “Allergies usually flare up in the spring and fall.”

Interesting,
I thought.
Good-bye, Maybelle's excuse for going home early. But if not allergies, what explained her drawn face, the reddened eyes?

“So bring me up to speed on local gossip,” Doug continued. “Maybelle and Buzz were an item before Becca arrived on the scene?”

“Theirs had to be one of the longest engagements in history. Maybelle was devastated when Buzz broke it off and started seeing Becca.”

Doug's brow furrowed. “You don't suppose…?”

You don't suppose…?
Those words could be put to music.

“Can we change the subject please?” All this worrying and wondering was starting to give me a headache. “What brings you here in the middle of the afternoon? You in the market for more of my pricey saffron?”

He chuckled. “Every time you mention ‘saffron,' I swear I can see dollar signs light up those green eyes of yours.”

“Well,” I drawled, “a girl's gotta make a living. Need I remind you, saffron
is
the world's most expensive spice? Not much call for saffron in a town where mac and cheese is a staple.”

“Don't forget collard greens and cornbread.”

“Not to mention fried green tomatoes.”

“Guess I haven't been south of the Mason-Dixon Line long enough to acquire a taste for grits or greens. Once the barbecue festival is over, I intend to appoint you as my guinea pig. I stumbled across a recipe for shrimp remoulade that I'd like to try. Are you game?”

“Count me in.” Doug was an excellent cook. Absolutely fearless in the kitchen. Exotic dishes calling for rare spices made him one of my best customers. And also my favorite.

“In the meantime, I'm perfecting pulled pork. I have my eye on winning the trophy for backyard division in the pulled-pork category. The winner is often invited to compete with the professionals next year. Which brings me to why I'm here. Is Lindsey around?”

“Hmph,” I sniffed. “And all this time, I thought
I
was the reason you stopped in.”

“You know I look for any excuse I can to see you,” he said, his expression earnest. “My pantry is filled to overflowing with spices. Some, like nigella, mahlab, and kokam, I'd never heard of before, much less used.“

“Nigella and mahlab have a nutty flavor,” I told him, showing off the knowledge I'd accrued. “Kokam is more acidic and fruity.”

“Thank you, teacher,” he said in mock seriousness. “Is that going to be on the final exam?”

I gave his arm a playful swat. “Don't be a smart aleck,” I said. “And as for Lindsey's whereabouts, she's spending the week at a friend's lake house. What did you want to see my daughter about?”

“She volunteered to be part of my pit crew for the festival. I wanted to ask if she had any friends who might be interested in joining the team.”

“I expect her home, tanned and tired, on Sunday.”

“She's scheduled to work at Pets 'R People the next day, so I'll ask her then.” He stole another kiss, then strolled out, leaving me wanting another. I stared after him with a bemused expression.

*   *   *

After Doug left to tend to his practice, I filled the hours until closing restocking shelves and planning an eye-catching display designed to draw customers into my shop during the barbecue festival. A glance at the clock told me it was quitting time.

I started around the counter when in walked Wyatt McBride. I automatically ran a hand over my rebellious curls and smoothed my apron—the female equivalent of gut sucking and spine straightening. McBride has that kind of effect on the ladies. I'm ashamed to admit I'm no exception.

“McBride,” I said all businesslike.

“Piper,” he replied, aping my tone.

I folded my arms across my chest. “Since you don't cook, I know you're not here to buy spice. Unless you've taken my advice and purchased a copy of
How to Boil Water.
”

“Too drastic. I'd rather load up on doughnuts and other edible donations.”

Donations such as pepperoni pizza delivered by a certain platinum blonde?

“Not my idea of a well-balanced diet.”

Six foot one, broad shoulders, trim waist. It was hard to believe someone who looked like a living, breathing ad for fit-and-trim was a junk food addict. Speaking for women the world over, it just wasn't fair! I knew for a fact McBride was in his mid- to late forties, yet he looked like he could bench-press with youngsters half his age. Maybe he secretly existed on a diet consisting of tofu and soy. When my defenses were low, I caught myself fantasizing what he'd look like without a shirt.

It took willpower, but I managed to pull my errant thoughts back to the present. “If you're not a customer, what brings you here?”

“I thought you might've remembered some detail from yesterday that might prove helpful.”

McBride subscribed to the theory that memory was a funny thing. That details that at the time seemed insignificant lodged in the hinterlands of the brain and might resurface at a later date. In his experience as a hotshot detective, he claimed these details often cracked a case wide open.

“I tried, but can't think of anything I might've missed. I don't recall seeing anyone or hearing anything unusual. Just me and Casey.”

Hearing his name mentioned, the pup awakened from his nap, raised his head, opened one eye, then promptly went back to snoozing peacefully next to the counter.

“Any clues who might have killed Becca?”

“For now, we're treating her death as a random act of violence. A crime of opportunity. Becca Dapkins happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Tugging on my apron strings, I pulled it over my head. “Was the coroner able to establish the time of death?”

“Estimating time of death isn't an exact science,” McBride cautioned. “Judging from body temp and rigor, however, Strickland puts it somewhere between ten o'clock and midnight.”

Mechanically, I folded the apron into a neat square. “What was Becca doing in the square at that hour? Why wasn't she home watching reruns on TV? Or getting ready for bed?”

“We're theorizing she might have been taking a brisket over to Buzz Oliver. A peace offering of sorts.”

“That's ridiculous! Who ever heard of beef brisket as a peace offering? Chocolate-chip cookies or brownies, but a chunk of meat?” I shook my head in disbelief. “By the way, did you ever find the brisket?”

“No sign of it.” He hooked his thumbs in his belt. “I figure the mugger panicked and skipped off with it. One of my men raised the theory that an animal might've carted it off. A large dog maybe. Or turkey buzzards.”

Turkey buzzards were incredibly ugly birds that ate anything that wasn't moving. The notion of them feasting on Becca made me queasy. I swallowed hard and asked another question that had been plaguing me. “What about Buzz? Did you talk to him? Rumor has it he and Becca had argued.”

“Buzz's alibi is rock solid.”

“Are you sure? Isn't the husband or boyfriend supposed to be the guilty party? That's the way it always works on TV.” I tossed my apron at the counter, but it missed by a mile and slid to the floor. “So what was Buzz doing the night Becca was bludgeoned? Playing poker with the guys? Watching a Braves game?”

The corner of McBride's mouth lifted. “He had an emergency.”

I threw up my hands. “For crying out loud, the man's an exterminator, not a brain surgeon.”

“Don't rush to judgment.” McBride's smile widened ever so slightly. “Seems a bedbug infestation was reported at the Beaver Dam Motel on the edge of town. Guests were freaking out, screaming bloody murder. Threatening to call the board of health. The manager called Buzz's company and offered to pay double if he'd send someone ASAP. Buzz was there until the wee hours. The manager backed up his claim still grumbling about the bill.”

“Isn't the Beaver Dam Motel also known as the No-Tell Motel?”

Turning, McBride sauntered toward the door. “One and the same.”

“Did Buzz find any bedbugs?”I called after him.

“Nope.” He flashed a devilish grin over his shoulder, showing off the cute dimple in his cheek. “Cockroaches. Lots of 'em.”

 

C
HAPTER
11

“Y
OU'RE PULLIN' MY
leg, right?” Reba Mae asked. “McBride can't really believe Becca's the victim of a muggin'? No way, José.”

“Way.”

I dunked a tortilla chip into the spicy salsa. We were seated at a booth in one of our favorite eateries, North of the Border. Mariachi music blared over a loudspeaker. Though Brandywine Creek isn't a mecca for fast-food joints, we citizens fancied ourselves a cosmopolitan bunch. Mexican, Chinese, and Italian restaurants all did a thriving business. And if you're more in mind for burgers and beer, there was High Cotton Bar and Grill out on the highway.

“Where does Wyatt think this is, New York City?”

“Don't shoot the messenger. I'm just repeating what McBride told me.”

“We've never had a muggin'.” Reba Mae idly stirred her slushy margarita with a straw.

“That's not to say it can't happen,” I pointed out. I helped myself to another chip and critiqued the salsa. It seemed spicier, hotter, than usual.
A tad too much poblano pepper?
I wondered. Good thing I'd stocked up on antacids.

“It wasn't a simple muggin',” Reba Mae reminded me. “It was a murder. Do you s'pose it might've been done by a kid high on drugs?”

“I wasn't aware Brandywine Creek had a drug problem.”

“Honeybun, don't kid yourself,” Reba Mae chided. “You'd have to be livin' on the moon to get away from drug problems. They're everywhere.”

As though the tequila could dull the fact we didn't live in a perfect world, I took a big swallow of icy-cold margarita. I was relieved when Nacho, one of the owners, delivered our food.

An ever-present smile wreathed his round face. “Is there anything else I can get for you, señoras?”

“No thank you, Nacho,” I said, returning his smile.

When he left to wait on a table of newcomers, Reba Mae and I dug into our dinners. Chicken chimichanga for me, beef enchiladas for her.

“Did McBride and his men give Becca's house a look-see?” Reba Mae asked as she cut off a bite-sized piece of enchilada.

“They probably did, though McBride didn't mention it. To be honest, I wouldn't mind taking a look myself.”

Reba Mae stared at me as if I'd lost my marbles. “Why'd you want to do a fool thing like that?”

I concentrated on my chimi and avoided eye contact. “Just because.”

“Because why?” she persisted. “What do you expect to find that the cops didn't?”

I shrugged. “I don't
expect
to find anything. I just thought it might be, well … you know … interesting.”