Read Still Life in Brunswick Stew Online
Authors: Larissa Reinhart
Tags: #Mystery, #humor, #cozy, #Humour, #Romance, #cozy mystery, #southern mystery, #humorous mystery, #mystery series
Still Life in Brunswick Stew (16 page)
After promising the Parkers I’d locate Eloise’s pottery from the festival, I left them to their funeral arrangements. Perhaps her death was nothing more than a horrible accident, but dammit, I wanted to know for sure. And so did the Parkers.
I decided on a visit to High Cotton Farm on my way out of town. However, I didn’t want to peruse the tangle of country roads leading out of Sidewinder in my hunt for the farm, so I stopped at Chaney’s Garage for a Coke and directions. I figured this had to be Nurse Jess’s in-law’s garage. It was the only garage in the dinky town.
Kids buying candy and locals playing video poker packed the tight aisles of the small convenience store connected to the garage. I eyed the poker games and wondered if they had come from Max Avtaikin’s business.
I had heard through the grapevine that selling video poker machines was one of his legitimate enterprises. Video gambling was legal as long as the machines didn’t cash out over a certain amount. However, some places cheated and the sheriff’s department made the occasional bust. Mr. Max made money either way.
I wandered past the shelves of junk food to the cashier’s booth. The gray haired woman sitting before the racks of cigarette cases looked familiar.
She leaned back and stretched, straining the blue smock she wore. I immediately recognized her massive chest. This was the pushy gal working the gate at the festival who gave me a hard time. I forced a smile and decided to give her a second chance.
“Hey there, I’m looking for High Cotton Farm. Can you give me directions?”
Her eyes fell on my decorative Bulldog tank and her lip twitched. Maybe she was a Georgia Tech fan. “What you want with the Gables? You look familiar. You ain’t a salesman are you? We got laws against door-to-door peddling in Sidewinder.”
“Do I look like a salesman? I just want directions.”
“Where you from?”
“What does that matter? Are you going to give me directions or not?”
“I remember who you are. You’re that girl from Halo who talked ugly about Brunswick Stew.”
Heads turned from the poker machines. I shoved my fists on my hips and raised my chin.
“Yes, I’m that woman from Halo. And I’m not talking ugly about Brunswick Stew. I’m investigating the possibility that it killed my friend, though.”
“What you got against Brunswick Stew?” asked a poker patron missing a few teeth and a fair amount of hair.
“She’s probably one of them food snobs,” sniffed the cashier. “She’s pretty uppity.”
“I’m not uppity. I just won’t eat anything from a festival that near killed half the patrons.”
“Now you’re exaggerating,” said the cashier.
“Halo’s full of snobs and fibbers,” said toothless Joe. “Everyone knows that.”
“You’re thinking of Line Creek. And you’re not doing much to impress me on Sidewinder as one of the great wonders of the world.”
The cashier heaved herself from the chair and leaned over the counter, thrusting her gigantic breasts in my direction. Again. “Halo’s the one giving Forks County a bad name. Your town’s the one getting all the news about murders a few months back.”
“Well, now it’s Sidewinder’s turn. Are you giving me those damn directions or not?”
“Not.” She plopped back into her chair and crossed her arms over her chest. “Uppity.”
“I am not uppity,” I muttered and stalked away. A barrel of iced drinks in plastic jugs sat next to the door. I spun around. “You’re selling Griffin’s Genuine Juice?”
“I’m not selling you diddly.” She arched a brow.
“Great customer service. You better hope those poker machines are legit.” I slammed out the door. Next time I saw Luke I’d have him check into Chaney’s store. Maybe the sheriff’s department could do a raid. I’d ask for a ride-along.
Except it was owned by Jess’s in-laws. I couldn’t rat out a friend’s in-laws. That would be a breach of small town diplomacy.
I walked back to my truck cursing the cashier and her ignorant country ways. I would have to find another way to locate High Cotton Farm. I felt the insufferable woman watching me through the plate glass window. Cranking my key, I let loose a string of expletives. My truck refused to start.
“Not now,” I pumped the gas pedal and turned the key again. “Not here.”
Nothing. Didn’t even give me the ol’ rrr-rrr.
“Dammit!” I hopped out of the truck to pop the hood. Flecks of yellow paint and powdery rust blew into the grungy looking cavern. Why hadn’t I taken up Cody’s offer of lessons on basic mechanics?
I glanced over my shoulder. The patrons of Chaney’s store and the miserable clerk peered through the window, anxious for entertainment. Hitching my thumb in my pocket, I strode with relaxed ambivalence toward the garage. The smell of old oil and rubber assailed my nostrils. I stepped into the open bay, blinking to adjust to the darkness after the blinding sunshine. A mechanic in gray coveralls stood next to a younger guy in jeans and a Chaney’s Garage t-shirt. I waved and strode over.
“Hey, my truck won’t start. I might need a jump.”
“Let’s take a look,” said the older man in the coveralls.
The younger guy followed him out of the garage. We traipsed across the parking lot with the store crew watching.
“Are you Mr. Chaney?” I asked the older man. “I know your daughter-in-law, Jess.”
“Yep, and this is Jay.”
“What year is this pickup?” Jay scratched his head. “That’s a seriously run down truck. You should just put it out of its misery.”
I sucked in my breath. “Don’t talk about my Datsun like that. She’s very sensitive.”
“What did it do when you cut her on?” Chaney asked.
“Nothing. No clicks. No cranks. But the dash lights did flash.”
Chaney tapped his nose while Jay peered under the hood.
“While I got you here,” I said. “I went in your store and noticed you’re selling Griffin’s Genuine Juice.”
“Yep, he’s a local boy. Not selling too well, but I thought we’d help him out.”
“Anybody complain of taking sick after drinking that stuff?”
“Sick? What you mean by sick?”
“Stomach ache. Vomiting. You know, sick.”
“Nobody’s complained to me, but to tell you the truth, nobody’s buying the stuff. Looks like pond scum.” Chaney held his hand over the engine. “Maybe I ought to pull the Genuine Juice if it’s going to make folks sick. What’d you say your name was?”
“Cherry Tucker, sir.”
“Where you know Jess from?”
“I grew up with her in Halo. Went to high school together.”
“Halo?” He frowned. “What’re you doing around here?”
Sidewinderers must think Halo was on the other side of Georgia instead of Forks County. “Visiting my friend Eloise Parker’s folks. She died last weekend. Poisoned at the festival.”
“You think it’s this Genuine Juice?” Chaney looked stricken.
“Could have been. Could have been the Brunswick Stew, too.”
“No way it was the stew,” said Jay. “The Sidewinder Cook-Off is famous for Brunswick Stew all over the state.”
I shrugged. I wasn’t getting into another argument over Brunswick Stew.
“Must have been the Genuine Juice,” said Jay. “You better dump that junk.”
“Hell, Griffin can dump it himself,” said Chaney. “I’m getting my money back. I don’t care if he is local. I’m not supporting a poisoner.”
“Um, I don’t know for sure if the juice did poison people, sir,” I said, feeling the weight of libel and slander fall to my shoulders. “At this point, it’s just a possibility.”
“It couldn’t be the stew,” Chaney shook his head. “We’ve been having that stew cook-off for years. Don’t worry about Griffin. I’ll take care of that nasty Genuine Juice. Thanks for letting me know. Why don’t you cut the truck on now and see what happens?”
I climbed in the truck, turned the key, and the motor sputtered to a start. Leaning out the window, I shook Chaney’s hand. “How did you do it? Magic?”
“Naw. Your truck don’t like the heat. It just needed to cool down. You’re going to need a new starter, though.”
I exuded a lengthy sigh. “What’s it gonna cost me?”
“Couple hundred, maybe.”
“Shoot.” Inside my purse, my wallet screamed. “Thanks for your help. Do you know where the Gables live? High Cotton farm?”
Chaney proved much more agreeable with directions than his clerk, and I told him so. For Chaney’s sake, I hoped the police found the Brunswick Stew free of arsenic. He and the other small Sidewinder businesses needed that festival to continue. He might make poor choices in employees, but I hated to see a local business hurt because a sociopath wanted a bunch of folks to spew stew.
Or if some sociopath wanted somebody in particular dead.
Tightly packed rows of corn filled the fence line leading to High Cotton Farm’s entrance. For half a mile I saw nothing but corn except for an occasional sign promising a fall corn maze and encouraging me to keep on moving forward. I wondered why they didn’t name the estate High Corn Farm. If the place held cotton, it was hidden amongst the stalks.
Finally the lane opened onto a blacktopped drive big enough to hold Halo High’s Fighting Angels football field, stands, and concessions. I idled the Datsun and studied the bright yellow parking lines covering the lot. Either the Gables put on a hell of a tailgate party or they expected an onslaught for their corn maze. On the far right end of the lot, a large brick house sat between a small grove of pecan trees. Closer to the lane, a traditional red barn rested next to a construction site. Behind the quaint barn, I could see the pitched metal roof of a machine shed.
Because the construction site was closer, I pulled up before the skeletal outline of a building and spied a small plot of cotton growing behind it. “Coming Soon! High Cotton Education Center” read a large sign. It seemed the Gables had ripped off another idea from the Maynards. This news would surely work Miss Marion into a tizzy.
My truck rumbled closer to the sign featuring a scale drawing and floor plan. While I leaned out my window and squinted at the drawing, Bruce Gable opened the barn door and poked his head out. Spotting me, he quickly pulled the heavy door shut.
In their love of competitions, maybe the Gables had also entered one for bizarre behavior. Although where I came from, we just call it rude.
I decided to leave Mr. Bruce to his barn and drove to the house. I left the truck running, hopped out, and slapped my flip-flops up the walk and onto the porch. Heavy curtains blocked all the windows of the two storied, brick home. I rang the bell. After a long minute, the metallic scraping of various locks tumbling sounded through the door. The heavy door swung open and an icy sheet of cold air poured out of the house and washed over me.
Belinda Gable stepped into the doorway, propping a hand on the frame to block my entrance. Lean and lanky like her younger sister, she towered above me with piled dark hair adding another few inches. Her black bermuda shorts and black silk golf shirt, tucked and belted with a gold chain, felt out of place in the heat of the Georgia countryside.
Frosty, blue rimmed eyes narrowed at my presence and gave my bulldog ensemble a brief, dismissive perusal.
“What do you want?” she said.
“My name is Cherry Tucker, ma’am, and ...” What did I want? I hadn’t really come with a plan. I just wanted to meet the trashy Gables who Miss Marion seemed to think might have poisoned the Maynards’ stew. I was also curious as to why Belinda showed up to church as part of Max’s granny entourage. “I’m interested in your educational center. I heard about you at the Brunswick Stew cook-off.”
“Just a minute.” She slid the door halfway closed, blocking my view of the house, and turned away. A few seconds later, she reappeared with a brochure in her hand. “This should answer all your questions. What are you? A teacher or something?”
“No, ma’am. I’m an artist.”
“Artist?” She propped the door a few inches wider and reexamined me. “What kind of artist?”
“Portraits mostly. That’s my specialty. But I do all kinds.”
“Portraits?” She frowned. “Do you have a card? Maybe we can do those funny sketches when the center gets up and running. We’re still looking for additional funding.”
“Not those kind of portraits.” My stomach turned at the mention. I had spent my high school years working as a quick-draw artist at Six Flags. I’d have to be pretty desperate to return to that. In the distance I could hear my truck chugging away and realized desperate times might be near at hand. “Well, I can do quick sketches. Mostly I do studio portraits. Oils. Acrylics. I don’t have a card on me. That’s not why I came.”
“Why did you come? Get to the point. I’m busy. Are you selling something?” She pointed to a sign next to the door that spoke of the evils of soliciting on their premises. Evidently, solicitors were not tolerated.
“No, ma’am. Actually, I’ve been talking to the Maynards and wondered why you both are building education centers.”
I stopped as the door slammed shut in my face. I took that as the end to our conversation. Grasping the brochure, I hiked back to the Datsun. Some people sure were touchy.
Like they had something to hide.