Bone Appétit

by Carolyn Haines

  My mind stewed on the case while my potatoes boiled. When they were done, I moved on to stage two of my recipe. Whipping the taters into a puree.

  “Sarah Booth, where is your mind?” Tinkie elbowed me in the ribs as hard as she could.

  Mashed sweet potatoes spewed across the room as I accidentally pulled the electric beaters from the bowl of potatoes I’d begun to fluff. Two ladies who were the recipient of my yammish generosity gave me a glare that would curdle yogurt.

  “Sorry,” I said, wiping a glop of orange from one of their noses.

  “Do it again and I’ll plant that beater where the sun don’t shine,” the woman growled too low for Chef Maynard to hear.

  I started to reply, but Tinkie pinched my arm. “Behave!” she commanded. “What is wrong with you? You haven’t paid a lick of attention to what you’re doing. You’ve only made a huge mess here.”

  “Guilty as charged.” I couldn’t concentrate. My mind was on Hedy, voodoo, and a barbecue competition due to begin soon. “Tinkie, would you be upset if I took off now to find the pageant judges?”

  She looked around our workspace. It was clear that rather than helping Tinkie, I’d only held her back. Without me, she’d stand a chance of winning Chef Maynard’s approval and at least a friendly greeting from the other participants in the class, who by this time were ready to string me up.

  “Go on,” she said, and sighed. “No point staying here if you aren’t going to listen and learn.”

  “Thanks!” I couldn’t even pretend remorse. The idea of sweet potato stuffed pork made my mouth water, but the process of getting from raw meat to dinner on the table didn’t interest me at all. Not today. Jitty had put a bee in my bonnet to talk to the judges, and I couldn’t wait to find them.

  A million scenarios floated through my head as I hurried back to the hotel to change from my potato-stained clothes into another pair of jeans and a blouse. At the front desk, the clerk said Dawn Gonzalez and Harley Pitts were staying at the Alluvian. Belinda Buck was not. The hotel staffer either couldn’t or wouldn’t say where she might be sleeping over.

  Clive Gladstone, the fourth judge, lived in Cleveland, Mississippi. He wasn’t registered at the hotel, so I figured he was home. Since I only had a couple of hours until the barbecue cook-off, I decided to concentrate on the judges close by. I used the house phone to call Dawn Gonzalez’s room. She invited me up without hesitation.

  She opened her door and signaled me in. Though her pageant years were two decades behind her, Dawn was a beautiful woman who took excellent care of herself.

  “I’m in the middle of my yoga session. You don’t mind, do you?”

  “Not at all.” I sat at the desk while she returned to a blue mat spread on the floor. In less than three seconds, she assumed a position that no normal human could attain. “Are you double-jointed?” I couldn’t stop myself from asking.

  “No, but I’ve practiced a lot.” She moved slowly and with agility and strength into another contorted pose. “I’ve heard you and your partner were hired by one of the contestants. Hedy is a strange girl. Beautiful, but strange.”

  That answered my first question—if the judges were aware Hedy had been questioned by the police. News traveled fast.

  Dawn stood, then leaned backward until her hands touched the floor.

  “Karrie Kompton made it a point to tell me all about Hedy’s encounter with Police Chief Jansen.”

  I started to say something catty about Karrie, but bit it back. Dogging her to a judge might only reflect poorly on Hedy. “No charges were filed,” I said. “There wasn’t enough evidence. Hedy was only picked up because she was Janet’s roommate. The police always question people with access.”

  “And motive,” Dawn said. She wrapped her right leg around her neck and balanced on her left.

  “Hedy doesn’t have any more motive than the other girls.”

  She slowly unwound and stood. “True. But Hedy is highly ranked.” She made a surprised face and put a hand over her mouth. “Oops! I shouldn’t have said that. The rankings are confidential. The other judges would be furious if they knew I’d let that out. Of course Clive reports everything to his friend, so I’m not the only gum flapper. Clive couldn’t keep a secret from Marcus Wellington if you sewed his lips shut.”

  “Clive and Marcus are that close?” This was a gold nugget.

  “Honey, I’ve only been in town a few days, but I’ve already heard the talk. Clive loves his horses and he loves Marcus Wellington. Not sexually, but as in deep loyalty and friendship.”

  I pressed on. “Tell me about Brook Oniada.”

  “What’s to tell? She was so talented. The fire baton routine would have been such an asset for Viking Range at outdoor events. Every eye in the crowd would have been on her. Her scores on cooking weren’t the highest, but I have to say she moved into the top position with her unexpected refreshment service to the audience. It was a brilliant move displaying exactly the kind of innovation and creativity I want to see in Miss Viking.”

  “Chief Jansen hasn’t been forthcoming with a lot of details, but I believe Brook’s body lotion had been tampered with.”

  She balanced on one foot and extended her arms and leg in opposite directions. “That’s what I heard, too.” When she had both feet on the floor, she picked up a towel hanging on the back of a chair and rubbed her face. “Is there something else you wanted to ask? Surely you didn’t stop by to confirm what you already know.”

  Clearly, now that her yoga was finished, so was I. She had other fish to fry, as we like to say in Mississippi. “You’ve helped a lot. What about Janet? Was she highly ranked, too?”

  Dawn frowned. “Harley Pitts favored her. He’d offered her guest appearances on his television food show, if she got the title.” She pushed her blond hair off back from her face. “He’s such a moron, he suggested that in front of the other contestants. Frankly, I hold him responsible for her death. I mean, he might as well have handed out filet knives. These girls are pure piranha when it comes to this title.”

  “You believe a contestant is the killer?”

  “Who else would it be?” she asked. “No one in Greenwood knows these girls. It’s not like some kind of local grudge. Unless a whacked serial killer has a thing for beauty contestants, it has to be one of the other girls.” She grabbed bottled water from an ice chest and held it to her neck to cool off.

  Competitiveness was one thing. Murder was something else, even for a lucrative title. “If it is one of the girls, aren’t you afraid she’ll go after the judges if she doesn’t win?”

  Dawn’s laughter was rich and musical. “Nonsense. And if that were the case, it wouldn’t be me. Unlike that fool Harley Pitts, who can’t keep his mouth shut, and Clive Gladstone, who doesn’t seem to have an original thought unless his school chum Marcus Wellington plants it in his head, I haven’t bandied my opinions of the contestants around.” She caught herself. “But I have been too verbose to you.”

  “No harm done.”

  “I need to get ready for the judging tonight. You’ll have to excuse me,” she said.

  “Certainly.” I didn’t have time for a drive to Cleveland, so Clive was out of the question. Harley Pitts was my next target, and since I already had his hotel room number, I decided not to alert him with a call.

  He’d taken one of the master suites on the second floor, and I was about to knock when I heard voices inside. The thick door muffled the words, but it was clearly a male and female in a loud exchange.

  The door opened and Voncil Payne almost walked into me. She carried a tray of the most beautiful petit fours I’d ever seen. Those small cakes, normally served in the South for weddings and bridal showers, are a weakness of mine. My mouth filled with saliva at the sight of them.

  “It would be wrong of me to sample your daughter’s baking skills,” Harley said gravely. “It wouldn’t be fair to the other contestants, but I appreciate the thought.”

  Voncil’s face was a mask.
“I understand, Mr. Pitts. I wouldn’t want to do anything that might appear to put your fair and balanced judging into question.”

  Harley’s eyebrows drew together as he tried to ascertain the level of her sarcasm, which was about chin deep, in my opinion. He turned his displeasure on me. “Who are you, and what are you doing lurking outside my room?” His expression grew stormier. “You’re the one hanging around with that photographer from the Zinnia newspaper. Get away from my door before I call hotel security.”

  “I’m not a reporter,” I said. “I’m Sarah Booth Delaney.”

  “She’s a private investigator,” Voncil threw in sweetly. “Hedy Lamarr Blackledge hired the Delaney Detective Agency to prove she isn’t a murderess.”

  “Ah, Hedy. Plays the violin like an angel, but there’s something sad—” He broke off. “Reporter, detective, no matter to me, I have nothing to say to you. Find another place to loiter.”

  I tore my gaze off the petit fours. Even if Voncil offered me one, I couldn’t eat it. Death by petit four sounded too ridiculous to risk. Aware of my lust for the plate of confections, Voncil picked one up, bit it in half, and gave me a Cheshire cat grin. “Mmm, mmm. Delicious, if I do say so myself.”

  “They’re beautiful,” I said. “If I were a judge, I could be bribed by them.” Now it was my turn for a toothy display. Harley blanched.

  “Perhaps you should come in for a moment. So I can explain,” he said.

  “My pleasure.” I stepped past Voncil. “Will Amanda serve her petit fours tonight at the barbecue, or was this a special treat just for Judge Pitts?” What was Voncil up to? She’d already compromised Belinda Buck, now Harley Pitts. I doubted the two incidents were coincidental.

  Voncil didn’t say a word. She walked down the hallway, the tray balanced on her hand like a professional waitress. As I followed Harley into his room, I closed the door behind me.

  11

  Harley Pitts had the ruddy nose of a chronic drinker and the dapper dress of a dandy, but his disposition was more tyrant than friendly drunk. Part of his TV popularity was his willingness to make guests cry. He was an interesting combination of Simon Cowell and 80s-era TV sitcom news commentator Ted Baxter.

  “Don’t bother finding a seat,” he said. “You won’t be staying long enough to heat a chair cushion.”

  “Is there a chair here?” I asked innocently. The place was a pigsty. Discarded clothes covered every surface.

  “What do you want?” he asked. “Other than to annoy people.”

  “As you know, Hedy has hired me and my partner, Tinkie Bellcase Richmond,” I gave him Tinkie’s entire pedigree, “to make sure Hedy isn’t charged with a murder she didn’t commit.”

  “That would be multiple murders,” he noted. He went to the TV armoire and pulled a bottle of single-malt Scotch from the back. He poured a drink straight up and belted it back. “That’s better. Now ask your questions. I have to get ready for tonight.”

  He wanted me to get to the point; I was happy to oblige. “Is it true you offered Janet Menton a spot on your television cooking show?”

  “Who told you that?” He whirled around, furious. “That bitch Dawn Gonzalez has been running her mouth. She’s just upset because I wouldn’t let her do a cooking segment. Hell, I wouldn’t let her spin-dry lettuce, much less appear on my number-one-rated Food Channel cooking show.”

  Talk about shameless promotion, Harley was a master at putting himself forward. “Why would Dawn Gonzalez want to be on a cooking show? She’s not a chef. That was never her claim to fame.”

  “You are so right there. She can’t boil an egg.” He waved a hand in the air dismissively. “She’s invented some cockamamie steaming device she wants to get on QVC. If she debuted it on my show, it would give her some creds to sell it nationally. That is not what my show is about.” He paced the room. “I am not going to participate in hucksterism and cheap merchandising.”

  As I watched him huff and puff, it occurred to me he was a master of cheap theatrics if not merchandise. His show, appropriately titled Pitt Boss, was famous for Harley’s rudeness and insults, yet he acted hurt when someone wanted to use him for a leg up.

  “What was it about Janet that made you want to showcase her talent?” I hoped a politely phrased question might yield better results.

  “She was an excellent cook,” he said. “I sampled several of her dishes, and she had a knack for spices and presentation. She loved food and cooking, the same way I do.” What appeared to be real remorse crossed his face. “And she was . . . nice to me. Not ooey, like those girls who think they can work me, but genuinely nice.”

  So the troll had a point of vulnerability. “How so?”

  He pointed a finger in my face. “Don’t you dare imply she did a single inappropriate thing. She did not. She was not that kind of girl.”

  “And I thought chivalry was dead,” I said dryly.

  He stopped as if I’d smacked him in the forehead. “You are a vile woman,” he said crisply. “I want you to leave.”

  Since I’d never sat down, I didn’t have to stand up. But I also didn’t move toward the door as he indicated with a sweeping gesture. “Mr. Pitts, two young women are dead. Don’t you want to find out who killed them?”

  I thought I saw the sheen of tears in his eyes, but he turned away so abruptly, I couldn’t be sure. “I want to know who poisoned Janet. Yes, I do. And that poor girl who burned to death. What a horrible way to die. Who would do such awful things?”

  “Someone very desperate to win this competition, or someone insane.” The full impact of the instability of the killer hit me. Cold sweat formed along my hairline. I didn’t want to be hurt. Again. Up until that moment, I’d worked the case as if I weren’t involved, as if this were an exercise in mental agility or a pastime to placate Tinkie. I’d sauntered along, asking questions, poking my nose into things, acting as if graphic violence hadn’t been committed and might happen again, possibly directed at me or my partner.

  I leaned against the back of a chair, recoiling against the true horror of Brook’s fiery death and Janet’s senseless murder.

  Harley retrieved the Scotch bottle and poured himself another drink, but he also poured an inch in a clean glass for me. “I have to tell you something.” He sat on the bed and hung his head. “I was drinking when I offered for Janet to come on the show. I did it to show the other girls I’d chosen to help Janet, to give her a professional boost in an arena where there’s money and fame for the picking. I wanted all of them to know I had power and could use it at my whim. They were such snotty little bitches, except for Janet, and they needed to see that someone had noticed Janet was a nice person. Sometimes being kind and decent really does matter.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Still, I shouldn’t have made her a target. She’s dead because of me.”

  He was as deflated as an old tire. I didn’t have the heart to beat up on him. “Did Janet say anything about the other contestants? Or about anyone? A member of the audience? Someone who’d threatened or intimidated her or who acted strange?”

  Tears slipped down his cheeks, and he brushed them away. “She was afraid. She said someone had been messing with her things.”

  “What things?” This was the best lead I’d gotten, so far.

  “Her spices, in particular. She had ground herbs she’d made up for one of her special dishes. She’d grown these herbs herself in organic soil, tended them, harvested them. She was truly a chef at heart.”

  “Did she say who tampered with her herbs?” I tried not to appear too eager.

  His expression was unreadable. “She said she caught Hedy going through her spices. Opening them and . . . sort of sniffing them.”

  My stomach dropped. This was not the kind of lead I was hoping for. Somewhere along the way, like Tinkie, I’d become one of Hedy’s champions. “Did Janet say if Hedy said what she was doing?”

  He rose and went to the Scotch bottle. I hadn’t touched my drink, so when he tipped the
bottle toward my glass, I shook my head. Instead of pouring another for himself, he put the bottle down. “Janet confronted Hedy, who said she was smelling them to see if she could tell what ingredients were included. The girls all have their secrets, which are basically unusual combinations of traditional spices and plants. The art of original cooking is often how ingredients are combined more than anything rare or exotic. Anyway, that’s what Hedy said, but Janet thought Hedy might be trying to sabotage her. I thought Janet was being paranoid.” Bitterness hardened his gaze. “I didn’t take Janet seriously. Now she’s dead.”

  “Harley, it’s one thing to investigate a competitor’s spices, but it’s another to kill her. You can’t blame yourself for this. How would you know to consider such an act?”

  “There were other incidents.”

  “Could you be more specific?”

  “Janet found this little bag under her bed. Brown leather and tied with a yellow ribbon. She opened it up and there was a nasty curled-up chicken foot in the bag, along with some other stuff. Janet thought Hedy was laying a curse on her.” He shook his head. “A pageant like this is a perfect atmosphere for gossip, rumor, cruelty, and nastiness. The other girls said Hedy was . . . that her family practiced voodoo. It upset Janet.” He shrugged. “Maybe Hedy put the gris-gris bag under Janet’s bed as a joke, or just to be mean. I don’t know.”

  “What did she do with the bag?”

  “I don’t know,” Harley said. “I told her to get rid of it. She was so upset, I told her it was foolishness. I meant to calm her fears.”

  One thing I hadn’t expected from Harley Pitts was compassion. It was also interesting to note how close he’d grown with Janet. She’d confided her fears to him. Perhaps it was a ploy on her part to take advantage of his obvious fondness for her. Or maybe she was really scared. “Did you tell anyone else?”

  “No. I should have, but I didn’t. I thought it was a prank and I didn’t want to fan the flames of silliness. Now, though, I can’t help but think I made a serious mistake by not taking action.”