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 (5 page)
The road back to Sidewinder took me to the southeast corner of Forks County, a meandering drive through Loblolly Pine forests and past many farms. Because Halo’s in the northern part of the county, we’re stuck in the hilly fingers stretching off the Blue Ridge Mountains. My Grandpa had dairy cattle, but in his later years he sold his herd for goats. I don’t know if he planned on milking them, but they certainly don’t earn their keep. They destroyed all Grandma Jo’s decorative planting in the front yard and were lucky enough to live after munching on azaleas. Down in Sidewinder they’ve got enough flat areas to grow corn and cotton. They even named their high school mascot The Picker.
Of course, in Halo, we’re the Fighting Angels. Nobody’s perfect.
My old Datsun pickup shuddered into Sidewinder, blowing black smoke and rattling her loose exhaust to announce my arrival. She was not crazy about these trips through sunbaked fields and roasting blacktop, and I couldn’t blame her. The drive to the hospital in Line Creek had been excruciating because of the backup of vehicles coming in and out of the festival. But now, at only five o’clock, there was hardly a car in sight. I guessed the festival was a bust.
As the organizer, Shawna would be pretty steamed. I could imagine her throwing a huge hissy when she found out which booth caused everyone to lose their lunch.
The eeriness of the empty streets of Sidewinder nagged me as I pulled through their one four-way stop at the town’s park and Legion Hall.
The Iron Kettle restaurant had only one car parked before it. Even odder, the sign hanging on the front door of the Viper read closed. Bad news for Sidewinder if a bar had to close on a Saturday night.
The festival grounds were located on a fallow field to the west of town. I pulled up and parked before the chain link fence and flashed my vendor badge to the woman sitting at a card table at the entrance. I squinted into the sun, surveying the fairgrounds. Empty except for people closing down their booths and carrying equipment to the parking lot.
“What happened?” I asked.
“Whew, it’s hot.” The older woman mopped her face with a handkerchief and straightened her straw hat. She glanced behind her at the sorry festival remains. “A bunch of folks took sick. I’ve never seen anything like it in all my years working at this cook-off, but I guess it’s not surprising in this heat. Maybe some potato salad went bad or something. Never eat anything with mayonnaise when the temperature’s above eighty-five.”
“So they don’t know what caused the food poisoning? What about the stew?”
“Girl, don’t say that. It would ruin our festival more than an off-potato salad. Sidewinder counts on the money this weekend brings in every year. We get folks from all over the South. Even saw some from Texas and Tennessee today. No one can make Brunswick Stew like a Georgian, but plenty of folks like to try their hand. Particularly those Virginians that think they invented the stuff. Then there are all the barbecue folks that come to try it. Can’t have a pulled pork sandwich without coleslaw, Brunswick Stew, and banana pudding.”
She pulled off her hat, revealing a wet mess of gray hair, and fanned herself. “Maybe it was the banana pudding. A good banana pudding is made with eggs.”
“So, it’s not the Brunswick Stew? My friend ate a lot of it and got sick.”
“Honey, I don’t know what did it. We’ve had inspectors swarming this place, testing everybody’s food. Guess we’ll find out.” She slammed the hat on her head. “But I doubt it’s the Brunswick Stew. That stuff cooks all day. No bacteria can survive. I bet she ate potato salad or banana pudding with her barbecue.”
“She didn’t eat barbecue. She ate Brunswick Stew.”
The woman stood up. “You listen to me. Brunswick Stew is a delicious, beloved dish we’ve been eating forever. No one gets sick from Brunswick Stew. It puts hair on the chest of men and will put some curves on that stick of a body of yours.”
She crossed her arms. “Go on and get you some.”
Plunking my fists onto my stick of a body, I shot her a look back. “Looks like you’ve been enjoying enough of it. Ma’am,” I added to not be rude.
She flushed and thrust her massive breasts in my direction. “My stew cooking got me my husband. Men like meat in their stew and on the bones of their women.” She looked me up and down. “And I’m not seeing any ring on your finger. You probably can’t even cook.”
“I don’t need to cook.”
She harrumphed. “Like I said, I don’t see a ring on your finger. Where you from anyway?”
“Halo.”
“Figures,” she said, settling into her plastic deck chair. “Go on now.”
I stomped past her. “Country,” I muttered.
“Redneck,” she returned.
I sped past the inflatable jumping games, wandered through the craft section, and halted at my partially dismantled booth. With sweat darkening his golden blond hair, Todd leaned over the PVC pipe frame, yanking on two pieces fitted together. A pair of slot machine cherries tattooed one calf. Sweat glistened on his shirtless back as he tugged on a pipe.
“Todd,” I called. “Thank you for taking down the stand. I know it’s a pain.”
He stood up slowly, giving me an ample view of the lean physique and tight muscles that came from lifting weights and hauling boxes. Unlike Eloise’s boyfriend, Griffin, muscles suited his long body and weren’t propagated by supplements. He turned, rubbing his brow with the back of his hand.
My breath caught as he offered me a view of his upraised bicep and the hard swells and angles of his chest and belly. A vision for a Rafael-styled fresco on my bedroom wall with Todd as the subject danced in my mind before I caught myself.
Damn this weakness for beautiful men, I thought. Eloise knew me too well. I shuffled back a step and shoved my hands in the pockets of my shorts.
“No problem,” he smiled, offering two long dimples on each cheek. “I put it on my honey-do list.”
I edged back another step. “I don’t think it’s appropriate for you to call a favor for a friend a honey-do list.”
“I’m just joshing you.” He winked again and ambled closer, closing the distance between us. “We’re not married anymore. You sent me the papers.”
“You shouldn’t joke about it. Signing the annulment papers took longer than our Vegas wedding. That’s sad, not funny.”
“I wish I knew what happened to that ring. It sure was pretty. I looked for it in Caesar’s Palace. The security guards sure got ticked. You know, even if you take your shoes off, they don’t like people wading in that fountain.”
I rolled my eyes. “Never mind. I’ll help you load the stuff in the Civic.”
We worked together unscrewing the pipes and yanking them apart. Todd had nestled Eloise’s Raku pots in scraps of fabric and Styrofoam sheets within large boxes.
I hoisted the last box in the hatchback of Todd’s Civic, keeping far from his pheromone-laden sweat. Since Todd had already packed most everything else away in boxes, I poked my head out the back of his car to make a comment on his diligence but didn’t see him anywhere. The aroma of barbecue and Brunswick Stew floated past the truck in a sudden gust of wind, and a sound like a chainsaw cutting through a block of cement startled me. I clamped a hand over my stomach and felt the sharp knock of hunger. My middle reverberated with another deafening growl.
“Cherry.” Todd popped around the side of the booth next door, startling me. “I could hear you three doors down. You’re hungry. Let’s get something to eat. That pulled pork smells incredible.”
“I’m not hungry.” The chainsaw in my stomach revved again.
Todd’s eyebrows drew together. “If that’s not your stomach, what is that sound?”
“I can’t eat festival food, Todd. A bunch of people took sick. Eloise died.”
“She died?”
I nodded, biting my lip.
Without hesitation, Todd stepped forward, wrapped an arm around me, and pulled me against his slick skin. “I’m so sorry, baby. I didn’t know. When you said they were taking her to the hospital, I thought she got heat stroke. Figured you two were sitting in the sun. It was hotter than two cats fighting in a wool sock today.”
“We were under the tent.” I pressed my hands against his stomach to shove myself away, but the bumpy ridges of his abs felt so pleasant under my fingers, I let them rest. My head dropped against his chest, and Todd stroked my hair.
“You’ve been through a lot today. How did she die?”
“It looked like she was having a fit. I guess it had something to do with her disease. Her daddy wants an autopsy.” I sucked the inside of my cheek to prevent tears from welling in my eyes again.
“That’s strange.” Todd kissed the top of my head and nestled me tighter. “Poor Eloise. I didn’t think she had anything life threatening.”
“I know. Food poisoning doesn’t usually kill people. It doesn’t sit right with me or with her family. They don’t trust the authorities. They want me to look into it.”
“Of course they want you to look into it. You like to stand up for people like the Parkers. You got a talent for telling the big folks how the cow eats the cabbage.”
A trickle of sweat dripped off his chest and smeared my face. I rubbed the wetness from my cheeks and pulled my head away. Looking up, I saw Todd’s eyes darken. A familiar feeling washed over me. A feeling I once had in Vegas. Just before Todd snookered me into marrying him for a couple of hours.
Hindsight has taught me it’s wiser, as well as cheaper, to avoid those particular feelings.
I hopped back, but Todd’s hands lingered on my shoulders before sliding down my arms.
“Are you all right, Cherry?”
I swallowed the tightness in my throat and folded my arms across my chest. “Of course I am.” I scanned Todd before returning my gaze to the pony rides. “Since we’re done here, would it suit you to walk around for a minute? I want to check out those cook-off booths, especially where Eloise ate.”
“Sure.” He made two long strides toward the food booths before glancing over his shoulder. “You coming?”
That’s what I always liked about Todd. He’s so agreeable. And loyal. Like I said, the Labrador of ex-boyfriends.
“You think you want to make yourself decent first?” I asked.
He glanced down at his bared chest. Leaning over into his favorite muscleman pose, he brought his fists together and flexed his shoulders and arms. He continued with a series of poses, ending with an upraised arm bicep flex. The evening sun streaked his glistening body in gold and amber. Stick Todd in the English countryside instead of rural Georgia, and John Constable would have loved to catch that light effect in one of his landscape paintings (if Constable had considered Guns of Steel at Sunset a worthy subject).
“You don’t think the concessions want to see my pipes?” He grinned, striking another pose.
“I think,” I swallowed and folded my arms over my thumping chest, “they’ve got enough distractions today.”
We wandered through the cook-off area, watching the contestants pack up their stations.
“I wish I could remember which booth gave Eloise all that stew,” I said.
Todd pulled a slip of paper from his pocket and examined it. “Team Cotton Pickin’ Good?” His eyes flicked over the signs hanging from the various competitors’ canopies.
“How did you know?”
“There were a bunch of tickets laying in a chair,” Todd said sheepishly. “I was fixing to get me something after I finished putting away your tent. They’re all for Cotton Pickin’ Good. I thought at a cook-off you got tickets to try all the booths.”
“One of Eloise’s students gave her free tickets to their stew stand,” I swallowed the knot in my throat. “Poor Eloise. Brought low by her love for Brunswick Stew. Let’s check out this Cotton Pickin’ joint.”
The Cotton Pickin’ Good booth stood on the periphery of the stands, one of the few tents that didn’t bustle with activity. A young man with a neck tattoo and gaping plug earrings stood behind the tent, slowly packing utensils into a box.
He looked up as we approached. “We’re closed.”
“Already? What happened?” I asked.
“Got shut down by some official dudes. But we would have closed anyway. Lewis, our cook, is in the hospital.” His nose wrinkled. He tossed a dirty knife into the box. “I’m supposed to head over there after I clean up. Even when he gets sick, I’m stuck doing Lewis’s dirty work.”
I latched on to that bit of information like a terrier on a squirrel. “He caught food poisoning, too?”
“I don’t know.” The kid grabbed a roll of paper towels, jumped, and slam-dunked the towels into the box. “My mom is freaking out. I don’t think she’d freak out over food poisoning. Probably tell him to take Pepto and quit whining.”
I glanced at Todd, but he was examining the mess in the box. Probably looking for leftovers.
“Marion’s sick, too,” said the teen as he half-heartedly lobbed salt and pepper shakers in the box. A bag of Vidalia onions followed.
I flinched at the mess someone would have to unpack and tried to concentrate on the mysterious sickness inflicted on Team Cotton Pickin’ Good. One that may or may not be food poisoning. “Who else is sick?”
“Marion. Lewis’s wife.” The kid swept a jar of pickle slices off the counter into the open box below. It hit a pot with a clang. I bit my lip imagining pickle juice soaking into the cardboard.