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  As my insides began to thaw, my brain clicked into gear. Crime scene? Who’d want to kill Becca? I distinctly recalled McBride saying “crime scene.” Surely he was mistaken. I closed my eyes and envisioned Becca lying on her side, her right hand outstretched as if to break a fall. The hair at the back of her head had appeared sticky, matted. Certainly there must be a reasonable explanation for her death. Maybe she’d tripped over a root or slipped on a hickory nut. Maybe she’d suffered a heart attack. Or had a seizure. Whatever the case, she’d fallen and struck her head. A simple accident. Not foul play.

  Then doubt pricked a teensy hole in my theory, letting the air out of my bubble of self-deception. If Becca had fallen—and landed in her present position—she’d have struck her forehead, not the back of her skull.

  I mulled this over as I drank coffee. Yellow tape now decorated shrubs and bushes like a child’s clumsy attempt at putting garland on a Christmas tree. I watched McBride, notebook in hand, prowl the scene in ever-widening circles. The paramedics arrived, armed and ready to administer CPR to a corpse. The fire department followed minutes later in their hook and ladder in a show of solidarity for their crime-fighting buddies. The men climbed out of their respective vehicles and congregated in a tight knot outside the roped-off area. Last, but by no means least, John Strickland, local mortician and county coroner, pulled up in a van, then toted a medical case over to where Becca lay under the azaleas.

  “Hey, girlfriend.” Reba Mae sidled up to where I sat. “What’s this about you findin’ a body? Wasn’t one enough?”

  Sheesh! I hissed out a breath between clenched teeth. One would think I made a habit of seeing dead people. And all because several months ago I’d happened upon a local chef who’d been murdered in his own kitchen.

  “I swear, Reba Mae, if one more person asks me that, I’m going to scream bloody murder.” I clapped my hand over my mouth. “Please,” I groaned. “Poor choice of words. Forget I just said that.”

  “No problem, honeybun,” she said. “News is spreadin’ like a brush fire. Good thing you’re sittin’ up front or else folks would really have somethin’ to talk about.”

  At hearing this, I glanced around. Folks were fighting a losing battle not to stare my way. I’m not clairvoyant, but I could read their minds. They were asking themselves and one another what Piper Prescott was doing in a police car. Was I a suspect in an assault and battery? Or a murder? Was I about to be arrested? And how was it a person could find more than one dead body in an entire lifetime? Tired of being a sitting duck, I popped out of the police car and leaned against the rear bumper.

  Reba Mae leaned next to me. “So fill me in.”

  “Blame it on shin splints,” I grumbled, taking another sip of McBride’s coffee.

  “What did I tell you when you bought those fancy runnin’ shoes?” She shot a glance at my psychedelic-green footwear. “I tried to warn you that exercise isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Look where it’s gotcha.”

  “I overdid too much of a good thing,” I confessed. “If it hadn’t been for those darn shin splints, I’d be standing behind the crime scene tape instead of being stared at by my friends and neighbors.”

  “So, tell me”—Reba Mae lowered her voice—“did you recognize who the body belongs to? Promise, I won’t tell a soul.”

  I debated the pros and cons of revealing too much information. Pro being that in a town the size of Brandywine Creek the cat would be out of the bag soon enough. The con being possibly eliciting McBride’s wrath. I opted for life on the edge. I’d take my chances with McBride’s temper. I leaned closer and whispered, “Becca Dapkins.”

  “Becca?” Reba Mae’s eyes rounded. “You’re kiddin’, right?”

  “Wish I was.”

  “You sure?”

  I nodded. “Looked like she was still wearing the same pink blouse and skirt she had on yesterday.”

  Reba Mae let out a low whistle. “Whoo-ee, think it might’ve been an accident? That all this fuss is for nothin’?”

  “McBride’s being pretty closemouthed, so I can’t say for sure.” Frowning, I bent down and gave Casey’s head a pat. “Funny, but something tells me this isn’t going to turn out to be a death from natural causes.”

  CHAPTER 5

  “HIYA, SCOOTER.” MY ex-husband separated himself from a knot of onlookers and sauntered toward me.

  “Hey, CJ.”

  I had cringed at hearing the hated nickname What had once been endearing now was an irritant. Once upon a time the love of my life, Chandler Jameson Prescott IV, had deserted me in the pursuit of hefty lawsuits and a toothy brunette.

  Arms folded across his chest, my ex lounged beside me on the rear bumper of the squad car. “You in trouble again? Sources tell me you’re up to your behind in alligators. Thought I’d wander over. See if you’re in need of my legal expertise.”

  “What’s the matter, CJ?” Reba Mae drawled. “Can’t find any ambulances to chase?”

  “That you, Reba Mae?”

  CJ’s head had swiveled so fast I heard the bones in his neck creak. I almost giggled at the double take—almost.

  “In the flesh.” Reba Mae grinned. “Must be my new do.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s a durn sight better than that purple color I’m used to seein’.” He dismissed her with a frown and turned his attention back on me. “What’s this I hear about you murderin’ a customer?”

  “I didn’t murder anyone,” I all but snarled. “I found a body in the bushes.”

  “Easy, darlin’.” He held up a hand. “Don’t go all PMSing on me. I’m just tryin’ to help the mother of my children.”

  “Your sources need to do some fact-checking. And, for your information, I am not PMSing.”

  “Sorry, Scooter. Guess at your age it’s more likely menopause that’s makin’ you cranky.”

  “Do you want to sock him or want me to do it for you?” Reba Mae asked.

  Menopause is no laughing matter to women of a certain age. There’s nothing funny whatsoever about hot flashes and biological clocks low on battery life. “Don’t bother, Reba Mae. Knowing CJ, he’d probably have us hauled in on assault charges.”

  “We’d get off if we had a woman judge.”

  “Or an all-female jury.”

  Affronted, CJ stepped back and straightened his tie. “Well, since my services aren’t required, I’d best be on my way. You’ve got my number, Scooter. Call if you need a good lawyer, you heah?”

  Oh, I had his number all right, but it was no longer on speed dial. I watched him wander off to exchange pleasantries with his cronies who were clustered under one of the willow oaks drinking coffee from Styrofoam cups and engaging in idle gossip.

  “Out of my way! Get out of my way!”

  Reba Mae and I turned toward the shouting. Harvey Hemmings, esteemed mayor of Brandywine Creek, shoved through the swarm. Harvey’s round as a dinner plate face was flushed crimson. A gray fringe of hair encircled a head shaped like a bowling ball. A furry caterpillar of a mustache crawled across his upper lip. Sad to say, but our mayor looked more like a cartoon character than many cartoon characters.

  “McBride, hold up a sec! What’s this about a dead body?” Hizzoner ducked under the crime scene tape, obviously under the impression DO NOT CROSS didn’t apply to him. “Why wasn’t I notified of the goings-on?”

  “G’mornin’, Mayor,” McBride returned. “’Fraid I’ll have to ask you to step to the other side of the tape. This is an official crime scene, sir. Need to preserve evidence.”

  Hemmings’s face went from bright crimson to dull red. “You’re forgettin’ who you’re talkin’ to, son. I head up the city council who hired your ass.”

  From my vantage point, I saw a muscle work in McBride’s jaw. “You hired me to do a job,” he said with remarkable calm. “Kindly step aside and let me do it.”

  Reba Mae and I exchanged glances. A standoff. Neither man seemed willing to back down. Harvey Hemmings liked to throw his weight around�
��which was considerable—and most folks didn’t challenge him. His jovial demeanor belied his tendency to carry a grudge. “Don’t get mad, get even” was the motto he lived by.

  “Better watch your tone, boy, if you know what’s good for you,” Harvey blustered.

  “Until we know otherwise, we’re treating this as a possible homicide.”

  “Homicide…?” Hemmings repeated, sounding more angry than shocked.

  Homicide … I tried to wrap my mind around the possibility that Becca had been murdered. Times like these, denial can be a blessing. Numbs the mind. Possibly McBride’s stint at Miami-Dade had him seeing homicides behind every tree in the woods. Or in Becca’s case under every azalea bush.

  “What the Sam Hill you talkin’ about?” Harvey shouted. “Should’ve known your big-city ways would’ve rubbed off. Prove more hindrance than help. I thought havin’ a hometown boy head up the force was a smart move. Now I’m not so sure.”

  If McBride was affected by Hemmings’s tirade, he didn’t let his irritation show. “Mayor, can we discuss this in your office later? Right now, I have a job to do.”

  “Hrmph!” Hemmings ducked under the tape and stomped off. Instead of making a beeline for his office, though, he held court on the sidelines with CJ and his good ol’ boy cronies.

  “Poor Harvey. He doesn’t look none too pleased right now,” Reba Mae observed.

  “You can say that again,” I replied. “He’s used to being the only rooster in the henhouse. When it comes to orders, he doesn’t like to be on the receiving end.”

  People continued to gather as word spread. These days even octogenarians were adept with cell phones, texting, and e-mail. I personally knew some who had Facebook and Twitter accounts or were LinkedIn. The whole town was turning out for the show.

  “Mind if I record you standing by the police car?”

  I turned at Barbie Quinlan’s seductive drawl. The blond bombshell dressed all in black for the occasion in slim-leg jeans and low-cut ribbed tee. But it wasn’t her ensemble that drew my attention. It was the iPhone she held, its camera aimed directly at me. “Why would you want a recording?” I asked.

  “It’ll make a good promo for my new show,” she said with a shrug. Not bothering to wait for my response, she continued to film. “Are you considered a suspect at this point or merely a person of interest?”

  “Neither,” I snapped. “And turn that dang thing off this instant!”

  “Feisty little thing, aren’t you?”

  Reba Mae whipped Barbie around to confront her. “And you’re about to get a personal demonstration of just how feisty my friend really is if you don’t stop filmin’ her.”

  Barbie shook off Reba Mae’s hand. “And who might you be?”

  “Reba Mae Johnson. Piper’s BFF and owner of the Klassy Kut, should your roots need a touch-up.”

  “Sorry, I won’t be in town long enough to worry about touch-ups.” Barbie smoothed a hand over her hair, which she’d pulled back and secured with a clip. “I let my stylist worry about such things.”

  Well, whoop-de-do. I drained the remainder of McBride’s coffee. “Must be nice to have a stylist of your very own.”

  Barbie ignored my sarcasm, her attention on Reba Mae. “Being a Johnson means you’re kin to half the folk in the county. I thought I knew most of them, but you don’t look familiar. You from Brandywine Creek?”

  “Next county over. Butch and I met at a football game when his team played ours.”

  “Butch Johnson? That name rings a bell. I remember him from high school, but we didn’t run with the same crowd. Be sure and tell him Barbara Bunker’s back in town and says hey.”

  “Be happy to,” Reba Mae told her, “except Butch died some years back.”

  Barbie had the grace to flush. “Sorry to hear that. He seemed like a nice enough guy.”

  “The best.”

  Barbie turned her back on us and panned the parade of emergency vehicles lined up and down Main Street. “My videographer isn’t due to arrive until tomorrow, so I’ll have to make do.”

  “What do you intend to do with all that video?” I asked.

  “The promos alone will bring in a host of viewers. I might even be able to sell the rights to CNN or one of those investigative journalism shows like ABC’s 20/20 or NBC’s Dateline. A fond reunion in my old hometown turns into a full-blown murder investigation. I can’t believe my luck. It’ll make for a great debut.”

  Her smug attitude annoyed me. “What makes you so sure it’s murder and not an accident?”

  “The look on Wyatt’s face says it all.”

  Reba Mae’s brow shot up at the disclosure. “Just how well do you know McBride?”

  “Since we were kids. It’s his intensity. I’ve seen it before. If you knew him as well as I do, you’d recognize it, too.”

  As if sensing he was the subject of conversation, McBride strolled toward us. “Ladies, I hate to break up this tea party, but I’ve got a few questions for Piper.”

  The two women didn’t argue but headed off in opposite directions without another word.

  He slipped his notebook into his shirt pocket. “When I asked you to wait, I didn’t mean hold a press conference.”

  “You asked me to wait, not to remain silent.”

  “I stand corrected.” He eyed the coffee mug I still held. “Don’t s’pose there’s any left?”

  “Nope.” I tipped the mug upside down. “Nary a drop.”

  He scrubbed a hand over his jaw. “Damn shame. I sure could use some about now.”

  “Sorry,” I mumbled, contrite. “I owe you.”

  “Big-time,” he agreed. “Now,” he sighed, “let’s get down to business. Tell me again how you happened upon the body of Becca Dapkins.”

  “How many times do I have to tell you?” I asked plaintively. “Shin splints.”

  He gave me a once-over. “Funny, I didn’t take you for a runner, but your shoes are a dead giveaway.”

  “I just started jogging. Figured I needed the exercise and shoes were cheaper than a health club membership.”

  “Do you have peas in your freezer? If not, rice will work just as well.”

  I stared at him, dumbfounded. “What am I supposed to do with peas and rice? Make a pot of soup?”

  “Icing your shins for twenty minutes will help with the pain. It won’t hurt to down a couple ibuprofens either.” He removed his notebook and got down to business. “You can come to the department later to sign your statement.”

  I stared over at the coroner and crew clustered around Becca’s body. “I took a shortcut across the square. Casey started poking around the azaleas. At first it looked like a bundle of rags laying there. When I took a closer look, I realized it was Becca Dapkins.”

  He made a note of this. “How did you know who the body belonged to?”

  “Becca always wears pink even though it’s not her best color. She had on pink when she came into my shop yesterday. A blouse with ruffles and a flowered skirt—just like she’s wearing now.”

  “Don’t suppose you know Ms. Dapkins’s next of kin? Does she have family in the area? Is she married? Divorced?”

  I frowned, trying to recall the little I knew about Becca’s personal life. “She’s divorced, but dating Buzz Oliver. I believe she has a son and a daughter. One lives in New York. The other’s out west somewhere—Phoenix or Tucson.”

  McBride jotted this down. “Call if you recall any further details. If not, I’ll expect you to drop by my office to sign a formal statement.”

  “McBride, wait up.” He’d turned to leave, but I caught his arm. “Can you tell me what happened? Do you think Becca was murdered? How? Why?”

  “We’ll know more after the autopsy.”

  I swallowed. “Autopsy?”

  “It’s required in cases like this. The coroner is getting ready to transport the body. The autopsy itself will be done at GBI’s—the Georgia Bureau of Investigation’s—headquarters by one of their medical examin
ers. I should have the preliminary results soon after its completion.”

  I would have liked to ask more questions, but just then Buzz Oliver ran up. Puffing and out of breath, he looked pale beneath his summer tan. I noticed the shirt of his pest control uniform was buttoned haphazardly, the tail sticking out of his pants. “Is it true?” Buzz asked McBride. “I heard talk about a body being found. I’ve been trying to reach Becca all morning, but she doesn’t answer her phone.”

  McBride regarded the man calmly. “Why is it so urgent you reach Ms. Dapkins?”

  Buzz ran a hand over his gray crew cut and looked down at the ground. “We had a terrible fight the other night. I wanted to apologize.”

  “I see,” McBride said, his tone noncommittal. “And what is your relationship to Ms. Dapkins?”

  Buzz hesitated a moment before answering. “I’m … a friend.”

  I couldn’t say what made me glance away just then, but I chanced to see Maybelle Humphries standing apart from the rest of the crowd. She stood with her arms hugging her thin body, her expression unreadable.

  CHAPTER 6

  CUSTOMERS LINED THE sidewalk waiting for me to open. To borrow one of my dad’s favorite Yogi Berra quips, it was déjà vu all over again. A repeat of my grand opening of Spice It Up! Then, as now, my grand opening was made even grander by the fact I’d stumbled upon a dead body. That was definitely something I didn’t wish to make a habit.

  After McBride had finally allowed me to leave the crime scene, I’d raced home, shin splints forgotten. I’d barely had time to shower, blow my hair dry, and dump Kibbles ’n Bits into Casey’s bowl before hurrying downstairs. I left Casey in the apartment curled on his favorite rug, apparently having had enough excitement for one day.

  I was relieved my daughter, Lindsey, was visiting friends and not caught up in all the turmoil. My son, Chad, was too hell-bent on entering medical school to pay attention to any local news. Not even his mother finding a corpse could upset his focus

  The blood in my veins practically fizzed with an odd mix of adrenaline and dread. Questions buzzed through my brain like bees at a picnic. Who’d want to harm Becca Dapkins? topped my list. Why was she killed? I was still mulling these over when I switched the sign on my front door to OPEN.