Kill 'Em with Cayenne Read online

  “Piper, dear!” My ex-mother-in-law, Melly Prescott, rushed in. “What a terrible ordeal it must have been, finding poor Becca in the azaleas.”

  I mustered a smile. “I’m fine, Melly.”

  “Of course you’re not fine,” she chastised me. “That’s why I dropped everything and hurried over to help. Where’s my apron?”

  Not waiting for a response, Melly made straightaway for the counter, knowing I kept a stack of cheery yellow aprons with chili pepper logos on a shelf below. Melly Prescott was Southern to the core. Prim and proper on the outside in her signature twin set and pearls, she was a steel magnolia on the inside. Woe to anyone—or anything—that threatened to harm those she held close to her heart. To my surprise, since my divorce from CJ she’d often sided with me, and not her son when it came to disciplining Lindsey and often volunteered to help in the shop.

  A trio of women streamed into my shop with gossip on their minds. Dottie Hemmings led the charge, trailed by Diane Cloune, a tall, athletic brunette in golfing togs, and Gerilee Barker, wife of Pete the butcher.

  Dottie, plump and blond, her hair teased sky-high in a sixties look, zeroed in on me and enveloped me in a motherly hug. Hugs were dispensed more freely than handshakes in this part of the country. It was a habit I’d grown accustomed to after being raised in the more conservative Midwest. “Piper, you poor thing,” Dottie cooed. “Discovering Becca planted among the azaleas must have been a dreadful shock. Shouldn’t you be upstairs resting?”

  I disengaged myself from Dottie’s embrace, knowing her flowery scent would cling to my clothes for the rest of the day. “I’m fine, Dottie.”

  She clucked her tongue. “You’re such a brave little girl.”

  “Good thing the azaleas weren’t in bloom. No telling how long Becca might have laid there unnoticed,” Diane commented.

  Gerilee quickly agreed. “With all the pink Becca liked to wear, she would have blended right in with the flowers.”

  “Gee,” I murmured. “Lucky for Becca some psychopath didn’t get to kill her in April.”

  The women regarded me worriedly. No doubt trying to differentiate whether I was verging on hysteria or merely being sarcastic.

  “Why don’t I put the kettle on for a pot of tea?” Melly chirped. “Chamomile, I think. Nothing like a nice cup of chamomile tea to soothe the nerves, I always say.”

  Needing to keep myself occupied, I picked up a feather duster and ran it over a shelf of exotic salt and peppercorns from the far corners of the globe. Melly bustled to the rear of the shop, where I heard her running water into a kettle.

  “I heard someone remark it might have been an aneurysm,” Gerilee, an attractive sixty-something woman with short wavy brown hair, volunteered.

  Diane nodded vigorously. “My uncle Ray died of an aneurysm. He was sitting in his recliner watching golf one minute and dead the next. Doctor told my aunt the thing in his belly was probably big as a baseball before it burst.”

  “Might’ve been all the chemicals Becca was exposed to in her job with the water department,” Dottie suggested.

  Gerilee rolled her eyes. “You’re forgetting, Dottie, that Becca worked in an office—not a sewage treatment plant.”

  “Oh, right,” Dottie muttered, then turned her attention back to me. “Could you tell anything just by looking at Becca, what happened to the poor thing?”

  I concentrated on a speck of dust hiding behind a jar of pink Himalayan peppercorns. “I really can’t say. I expect McBride will let people know once he hears from the medical examiner.”

  “Well, my husband the mayor is worried sick about the whole incident.” Dottie smoothed a helmet of blond curls that could have withstood a hurricane. “Harvey predicts this will stir up all sorts of negative publicity. Definitely bad for barbecue, he said.”

  “It might be bad for barbecue, but it’s even worse for Becca,” I snapped.

  Diane and Gerilee traded nervous glances. Dottie, however, remained undaunted by my outburst. “Please don’t think I’m not heartbroken about the terrible fate befallen our dear Becca. In fact, I’m planning to bring an extra-nice dish to her memorial service.”

  “Do you know when that might be?” Diane twirled her ponytail around a finger. “I’m playing in the member-guest tournament at the club, and I’ve already paid the entrance fee. I’d hate to have to chose between them.”

  Melly rejoined the group carrying a tray with five Styrofoam cups and a plate of cookies. “I thought we could all use a calming influence. I brought some gingersnaps I made yesterday. They’re Lindsey’s favorite.”

  Leave it to Melly to turn a solemn occasion into a tea party. Though often irritated with my former mother-in-law, I was rarely angry. She tended to be outspoken, but her intentions were good.

  No sooner had these thoughts passed through my mind when Melly berated me, “Really, dear, Styrofoam is so tacky. You need to have some pretty china teacups on hand for when you entertain guests. As a matter of fact, I think I might have some at home that you can have.”

  Gerilee helped herself to tea and cookies. “Becca was in my bunco group. I met her son and daughter during their last visit. They weren’t a close-knit family, but her children were shocked at the news of her passing nevertheless. When I offered to plan a nice memorial service for their mother, they were pleased to accept. All they asked is to let them know the details so they can book flights.”

  “I’ve just had a marvelous idea,” Dottie beamed happily. “Wouldn’t it be lovely if everyone honored Becca’s memory by bringing a cream of mushroom soup dish to the reception? Everyone knows how fond Becca was of soup recipes.”

  “Excellent idea, Dottie,” Melly said, quick to jump on the cream of mushroom soup bandwagon. “I have the perfect recipe in mind.”

  Diane sipped her tea. “Who do you suppose will be Becca’s successor with green bean casserole? She brought it to every single covered-dish supper since she moved back to Brandywine Creek.”

  The thought of a successor boggled my mind. I sank down on a stool behind the counter to contemplate the conundrum. It was better than wondering why Becca died and how. I sipped my tea and, remembering I didn’t have breakfast, helped myself to one of Melly’s gingersnaps.

  “Speaking of cream of mushroom soup,” Gerilee said, “do you think Buzz might’ve been bearing a grudge? Pete swears the man blamed Becca’s cooking on his recent gallbladder attack.”

  “Buzz needed emergency surgery,” Melly recalled.

  Dottie brushed cookie crumbs from her flowered polyester blouse. “And no surgery is risk-free. Buzz could’ve died—and all because of a can of soup.”

  Diane smiled a sly smile. “Last time I saw Buzz and Becca they were arguing. It wouldn’t surprise me if Buzz had tired of Becca and regretted breaking up with Maybelle. Let’s face it, Becca could be demanding. Next to her, Maybelle’s a saint.”

  Interesting. “Do you think Maybelle would take Buzz back if he asked?”

  “Yes, of course,” Melly insisted.

  “No way,” Gerilee contradicted.

  Gerilee’s answer surprised me. “What makes you say that?” I asked.

  “I’ve known Maybelle for years. She’s not the sharing type.”

  Further speculation on Buzz Oliver and Maybelle Humphries’s love life halted when the door opened and a stylish woman in her midfifties with short dove-gray hair and an infectious grin entered.

  “Hey, y’all,” Felicity Driscoll sang out, waving a sheet of paper in one hand.

  “Hey, Felicity,” we chorused in return.

  Felicity was the owner of the Turner-Driscoll House, a newly opened bed-and-breakfast in the historical district. The house had been in Felicity’s husband’s family for generations but had fallen into disrepair during the last decade or two. When Felicity’s husband, a successful neurologist in Birmingham, Alabama, passed away suddenly, she packed up her antiques and moved to Brandywine Creek. As someone who loved people, loved to entertain, and love
d to play hostess, Felicity found running a B and B a perfect fit.

  She handed me the list she held. “Piper, one of my guests needs some special spices for a dish he’s preparing. I hope you have them in stock.”

  I scanned the sheet. Cayenne pepper, Hungarian-style sweet paprika, black Tellicherry and white Sarawak peppercorns, cumin, and Turkish—not Mexican—oregano. “Your guest seems to know his way around a kitchen. His requests are quite specific.”

  “Yes.” Felicity smiled. “He wasn’t satisfied with the spices in my pantry. He lectured me on the importance of fresh spice and the folly of buying in bulk.”

  I picked up one of the small baskets I kept handy and began to circulate among the shelves. “This shouldn’t take long.”

  “You and Piper both took a pretty big risk starting businesses in this economy,” Dottie commented. “How’re things going, Felicity? Are you managing to break even?”

  “Dottie, really!” Melly interjected. “That’s not polite. Stop being such a busybody.”

  Dottie dismissed the criticism with a flick of her wrist. “Inquiring minds want to know such things. How do you know if you don’t ask?”

  “No offense taken, Dottie,” Felicity said. “Thanks to the upcoming barbecue festival, I’m pleased to report business is booming.”

  “So who do you have staying at your place?” Diane asked. “Anyone important?”

  “All my guests are important,” Felicity said, her tone prim. “Every single one.”

  “That didn’t come out the way I intended,” Diane said, trying to backpedal. “What I meant was, are any of your guests playing a … pivotal … role in the contest?”

  “Well, there’s Wally Porter, a charming and cultured man, who’s a certified master judge.” Felicity ticked them off on her fingers as she spoke. “Then, there’s Tex Mahoney, a champion pitmaster, winner of various barbecue festivals all over the Southeast. And last, but by no means least, Ms. Barbie Quinlan, better known as Barbie Q, the host of a new cooking show. You might recognize her, ladies. She said that she grew up here in Brandywine Creek.”

  Melly frowned. “Funny, I don’t remember any families by the name of Quinlan.”

  I stuck my head out from around a display of chili peppers. “She was Barbara Bunker back then.”

  “Barbara Bunker…? My word.” Melly toyed with her ever-present pearls. “Never thought she’d return to Brandywine Creek.”

  “Well, she’s back—and with a vengeance.” I located the last item on Felicity’s list and dropped it into the basket.

  “My husband the mayor mentioned she was filming all the goings-on this morning. He’s afraid once word gets out about Becca, it’ll keep folks away. Brandywine Creek will get a reputation for murder like New York City or Chicago.”

  “Or Detroit,” I said as I started to tally the order. “By the way, Felicity, what dish is your guest making?”

  “Brisket,” she said with a laugh. “Tex called it his Braggin’ Rights Brisket.”

  CHAPTER 7

  THE WORKDAY WAS finally over. It was now after six o’clock. Time to pay McBride a visit. Guilt had niggled at me throughout the day for drinking all his morning coffee. The poor guy sure had looked as though he needed a strong jolt of caffeine. Probably hadn’t had a chance to grab a bite to eat all day. I decided to bring him a peace offering of sorts. Before I could reconsider, I reached for the phone and placed a take-out order. Twenty minutes later, I arrived at the Pizza Palace.

  “Hey there, Miz Prescott,” Danny Boyd, a slight young man with pale-blue eyes behind John Lennon–style glasses, a wispy goatee, and a wannabe mustache, greeted me with a friendly smile. “Just took your pie out of the oven.”

  “It smells wonderful,” I said. “Suppose you could add a Greek salad to my order?”

  He shoved his glasses higher on the bridge of his nose. “Sure thing.”

  “And don’t be stingy on the feta.” I watched Danny heap lettuce into a plastic carryout container, then add tomatoes, black olives, and slivers of red onion. “How’s business at the Palace since Gina and Tony opened their new place?”

  Danny glanced up from his salad making. “Couldn’t be better. The Pizza Palace is strictly carryout. Pizza, subs, calzones. If people are in the mood for sit-down Italian, they go to Antonio’s. Tony’s got a great menu. His lasagna’s the best.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” One of these days, I knew I’d have to bite the bullet and give the new restaurant a try. Tony Deltorro and I haven’t exactly been on the best of terms since I gave his name to McBride as a possible suspect in a homicide. Funny how little things like that damage a relationship.

  Danny slid the salad into a bag and rang up my order. “Tony’s attracting a lot of new customers with the home-style Italian cooking. His momma makes all the pasta. Gina does the tiramisu and cannolis. What’s not to like?”

  “Thanks, Danny. Have a good one,” I said as I left.

  I inhaled the spicy scent of Tony’s superb marinara sauce. My stomach rumbled in appreciation. I hoped McBride was in a sharing frame of mind when I arrived at his office bearing gifts. The Brandywine Creek Police Department was only a couple short blocks away, so I opted to walk. All I needed was a nice bottle of red wine to complete my menu, but knowing McBride as I did, he wasn’t the type to drink on duty. I shoved open the double glass doors and stepped into the inner sanctum.

  Precious Blessing, her hair in elaborate braids and her ample figure stuffed into a uniform a size too small, manned the front desk. “Well, lookee here,” she drawled in a voice sweet as sorghum. “Today must’ve been declared National Feed-a-Cop-Pizza Day.”

  I frowned. “What do you mean?”

  Precious eyed the box I carried. “Just my way of sayin’ that if you brought that for the chief, you’re a mite late. He already done had supper.”

  “Ohh,” I said, feeling my spirits deflate. Although loathe to admit, even to myself, I looked forward to our … encounters, I always found them … energizing … for lack of a better word.

  “Sorry, sugar.” Precious’s round, brown face mirrored her sympathy. “Miss Barbie-doll beat you to the punch. She brought the chief a pepperoni mushroom pizza not more ’n a half hour ago. Heard the chief say he was hungry enough to eat the box.”

  “Swell.” I set the pizza and salad on one of the battered wooden benches rimming the front of the room. “She still in there with him?”

  “She ought to be off mindin’ her own business. I’ll buzz the chief and let him know you’re waitin’ on him.”

  I plunked myself down next to the pizza box and picked up a dog-eared copy of Field & Stream. I flipped through the pages while Precious announced my presence, but couldn’t seem to concentrate. My eyes roamed around the shabby surroundings. A large wall calendar from a local lumberyard adorned one wall; a bulletin board with Maybelle’s flyer along with the FBI’s Most Wanted posters occupied the other. Except for the addition of the wall calendar, nothing else had changed since McBride had taken over the role of police chief from Reba Mae’s uncle through marriage, Joe Johnson.

  “Doesn’t look like McBride’s hired an interior decorator since he accepted the job,” I commented.

  “No, but he’s makin’ progress. Just last week, he got the city council to cough up funds for a couple cans of paint. Place ain’t seen a paintbrush since Clinton was president.”

  I idly leafed through ads for fishing rods and hunting rifles. “So how’s Dorinda’s daughter? She have her baby yet?”

  “Not yet.” Precious’s face crinkled with worry. “If she don’t have it soon, doc’s doin’ a C-section. Dorinda always said Lorrinda’s hips were wide enough to push out a linebacker, but I guess she overestimated.”

  I winced. “Wide hips or not, that’s a lot of baby.”

  Precious cocked her head to the side and listened. Then, I heard it, too, the click-clack of high heels against tile. Glancing up, I watched Barbie Quinlan sashay down the hall. Upon seeing me
in the waiting area, she smiled. Her shrewd gaze took in the pizza box next to me on the bench.

  “What’s that old saying?” she mused. “Something about great minds thinking alike?”

  Feeling at a disadvantage, I rose to my feet. That didn’t help one iota. The blonde, dressed for the occasion in mushroom-and-pepperoni chic—formfitting black capris and leopard knit top—towered over me. I wished I’d taken time to change out of my work clothes. Maybe spritz on some perfume. No doubt I smelled of cinnamon, cloves, and nutmeg. A scent more suitable for a gingersnap than a femme fatale.

  “I didn’t expect to see you here,” I said in a poor excuse for clever repartee.

  “I hoped to persuade Wyatt to give me an interview about what transpired today.”

  “And did you?”

  The woman smiled, the cat with a canary kind of smile. “Not yet.”

  “Why would he allow you to interview him?”

  Barbie shrugged. “Wyatt and I go back a long way. I thought he might be willing to do a favor for old times’ sake.”

  I clenched my jaw to keep from asking her how well she and McBride knew each other. And if they were planning to pick up where they’d left off. But I didn’t. That would make it look as though I were jealous. And I wasn’t. McBride’s love life was none of my business. After all, he was single—a widower actually—and free to date whomever he wished.

  I shifted my weight from one foot to the other. “I thought you were in town to film the barbecue festival. Only thing McBride has to do with the festival is keep the peace.”

  “You’ve gotta be joking,” Barbie snorted. “This whole thing is turning into a journalistic sideshow. It’s a developing story, and I intend to stay on top of things.”

  “Dottie Hemmings, the mayor’s wife, said her husband’s worried you’ll show your hometown in an unfavorable light. Hinted you had an agenda. Any truth to her theory?”

  “Dottie Hemmings?” Barbie scoffed. “That old biddy? All she cares about is keeping her hubby’s reputation squeaky clean. She’s afraid a dead body in the town square will reflect poorly on him and his fair city.” Dismissing the subject, she pointed a red-nailed fingertip at the rapidly cooling pizza. “Interesting,” she purred. “I didn’t know you and Wyatt had that kind of a relationship.”