Bone Appétit

by Carolyn Haines

  Karrie returned, face flushed, just as the judges arrived at her station. Dawn held out her plate, and Karrie hefted a heaping spoonful of her shredded pork. A large round object came up with the spoon, tottered on the edge for a moment, then splatted on the floor.

  “What the he . . . ck?” Karrie grabbed a paper towel and picked it up.

  “That isn’t pulled pork,” Belinda Buck said. “That’s a . . . oh, my goodness. It’s a road apple!”

  Several members of the audience started to laugh. Others uttered sounds of horror and disgust.

  Karrie’s eyes blazed, and she pointed a finger at me. “You put a horse turd in my barbecue.”

  At the word “turd,” the area erupted into gales of laughter and pandemonium broke out. Several people gave me the evil eye, but my gaze followed Tinkie across the room. She was short and moved through the crowd unnoticed, but her petticoats demanded at least a three-foot-wide clearance.

  I yelled her name, but she kept walking. When I turned around, Karrie stood in front of me. She drew back her fist, but self-preservation kicked in. I ducked. She swung, lost her balance, and fell.

  “I’m going to get you,” she said, struggling to hold back tears I thought for one foolish moment were sincere.

  “I didn’t touch your barbecue,” I told her. “I couldn’t have, you nitwit. I was talking to you the whole time.” Not waiting for her reply, I stepped over her and went after my partner, who might as well have been wearing a sign that said, “I’m a turd roller.”

  Tinkie would never admit it. Not even to me. Ladies didn’t traffic in such pranks. And if they did, they never, ever said so. For a Daddy’s Girl, discretion was the word to live by. Yet again, I found myself admiring a set of rules that I could never obey but on occasion had reason to appreciate.

  It took me fifteen minutes to track Tinkie to her lair, which happened to be a big camellia bush outside the open window of the Rocking River Ranch dining room. Snuggled in the bushes, Tinkie eavesdropped on the judges’ conversation. When I pushed my way through thick limbs and leaves to stand beside her, she gave me a wide grin and a “shush.”

  “I think Karrie Kompton should be disqualified,” Dawn Gonzalez said. “I mean, I’m not going to taste her barbecue, so I can’t judge it. Do you agree?”

  A rumble of negative comments came from the other judges. “But it wasn’t her fault,” Belinda Buck pointed out. “She certainly didn’t put the road apple in her pulled pork. That would be stupid.”

  “Or very, very clever,” Harley said. “What if she knew her barbecue wasn’t up to par with the others’, so she did something to get hers disqualified?”

  I could have kissed Harley. The best thing for Hedy would be if Karrie were tossed out of the contest and left town. Hedy wouldn’t have a clear road to the winner’s circle, but it would make the remainder of the race a lot more pleasant.

  “I don’t believe that,” Clive said. “Karrie wants this title. She’s worked too hard to risk a move like that. I believe we have to assume someone else put the . . . objectionable object into her dish. I don’t think we can throw her out. We have to give her another chance.”

  It figured Clive would support Marcus’s newest girlfriend, because ultimately it was a show of support for Marcus’s interests.

  “If Karrie were running a restaurant and someone found a . . . disgusting item in his food, what do you think would happen?” Dawn asked. “In the restaurant business, there isn’t a second chance to recover from contaminated food. Where was Karrie when the turd was put in her food? Part of her job is to make sure she serves healthy and safe dishes. I say we boot her out and be done with it.”

  Yes! Tinkie and I silently high-fived each other.

  “I object,” Clive said in his resounding baritone.

  “Maybe we should vote?” Belinda suggested.

  Tinkie and I grasped the window ledge. If it was a show of hands, we wanted to see the result. As I peeped over the sill, I felt cold fingers dig into my neck. Tinkie let out a tiny squeak. Before I could say Jack Sprat, I found myself flying backward through the camellia bush, the thick leaves sawing at my arms.

  When I finally hit the ground, I looked up into the angry gaze of Police Chief Franz Jansen. “What, exactly, do you and Mrs. Richmond think you’re doing?” he asked.

  “Eavesdropping on the judges.” Tinkie smoothed down the hundreds of layers of petticoat. While I was bleeding from a few scratches, she didn’t suffer a single injury. The petticoat had acted like chain mail. No shrub worth its salt would take on that paragon of starch.

  “That’s illeg—” He faded to a stop.

  “It’s unethical, but it isn’t illegal,” Tinkie corrected him.

  “Hedy Blackledge put you up to it?” he asked.

  “You jump to conclusions like a frog on a rolling log,” I told him. “Hedy doesn’t know anything about what we’re doing.”

  Jansen waved a hand, tired of the conversation. “You’d better hope nothing untoward happens here today or your client will go to lockup and stay there until this competition is over. No matter what Russell Dean says, I think Ms. Blackledge played a role in the murders of both those young women.” He straightened his posture. “And you should re-think the lawsuit I heard you were filing against Marcus Wellington.”

  “Why should a civil suit concern you?” Tinkie did a masterful job of hiding her surprise at how fast the news of my feigned phone call to Russell Dean traveled around the county and came back to the place where I’d woven it out of thin air. I was equally surprised. But I wasn’t about to admit that to Jansen.

  “I’m not worried about a proposed slander suit, Mrs. Richmond. Far from it. The Wellingtons are targets for all kinds of grifters, thieves, con artists, and lawsuit-happy women. Miss Blackledge is one in a long line of Marcus’s conquests who thinks she can barter a bit of pleasure into a permanent stipend. I know all about her blackmail schemes to get Marcus to support her.”

  “Are you the police chief or Marcus Wellington’s attack dog?” Tinkie asked.

  Red moved from Jansen’s neck into his face. “I don’t answer to the Wellington family, but I’ve seen this action plenty of times. Just because the Wellingtons are wealthy doesn’t mean they deserve less protection from grifters and crooks.”

  “Hedy deserves protection, too. She may not be a resident of Greenwood, but technically, neither is Marcus Wellington.” Hedy deserved the same protection offered to the son of a rich man. “Marcus is setting Hedy up to take the fall for Janet’s murder. I’m not saying he killed Janet, but he’s capable of it. He’ll do whatever is necessary to have his way.”

  “A mighty interesting theory, Miss Delaney. Trouble is, your client doesn’t need any help in looking guilty.” He turned toward the gazebo where folks were chowing down on barbecue. “Smells delicious,” he said as he strolled away.

  “There’s more to that police chief than meets the eye,” I said.

  “What angle is he playing?” Tinkie asked.

  “I wish I knew.”

  The front door opened and the judges came out. Dawn exited first while the other three hung back. We didn’t need to eavesdrop to read the body language. Karrie was still in the running. Clive had prevailed.

  The twang of an electric slide vibrated, and Amanda Payne’s clear voice swung over the chatter. “You can’t get no lovin’ if your grits are cold.” She sang the first line a cappella, then broke into a raucous, rockin’ song. Feet began to stomp, and several folks jumped up to dance. Even Tinkie was tapping her tiny little slipper-clad feet. True to her responsibilities, she went to work with her camera, documenting all that transpired.

  Everyone was having a good time, and I had to hand it to Amanda. She knew how to throw down at a barbecue. Her voice was spectacular, and her songs were original and complex, a blend of 70s folk, rock, and country narrative. While she was mousey in one-on-one situations, when she took the stage she was a high-wattage show.

  I noticed V
oncil moving around behind the scenes, adjusting wires and doing the work of a roadie. She was a typical manipulative stage mother, but in some ways Amanda was lucky. None of the other girls had such support—unconditional love that comes only from a parent.

  “Is that the coroner?” I pointed across the crowd to a young man deep in conversation with Chief Jansen.

  “He looks like he’s twelve,” Tinkie said.

  I’d forgotten she hadn’t met Marlboro. He did look young. “Let’s go see what the powwow is about.”

  “My thoughts exactly.” Tinkie used her petticoats like the blade of a road grader to clear a path for me.

  Marlboro saw us coming. His expression made Jansen turn around to confront us. “You two skedaddle,” he drawled, wiping his impressive mustache with a napkin. “I’ve got business here with the coroner.”

  “I promised Ms. Delaney I’d give her the state autopsy report,” Marlboro said. He didn’t squirm, but he came close.

  “You did what?” Jansen wasn’t really outraged, but he was good at acting the part. In fact, I was getting the sense Jansen was very good at playing a certain role, one that folks around town expected of him. The problem was that I wasn’t certain who or what the real Franz Jansen might be.

  “Ms. Delaney and her client have a right to know what the state lab found,” Marlboro said. He reached into his coat and brought out several sheets of paper. “I made copies for her.” He held them just out of reach. “But first you have to promise to keep this strictly to yourselves,” he said to us. “This is not for the newspaper.”

  We both nodded. “We promise,” we said in unison.

  “Well, Marby, why don’t you just jump in her lap like a good little doggie?” Jansen was disgusted.

  “Thanks, Reverend Tanner,” I said. “Good to know someone in Leflore County keeps his word and knows how to behave like a professional.”

  Jansen only rolled his eyes as I unfolded the paper. Tinkie pulled at my elbow, and I adjusted the pages so she could read along with me.

  The first report was on Janet Menton. I’d seen enough autopsy reports to get the gist in a hurry, but what I read stopped me cold. “Ricin?” I asked.

  Marlboro and Jansen nodded.

  “That’s incredibly dangerous.” I didn’t know much about poison, but I knew the U.S. government had worked on an antidote in case of biological warfare. “A tiny amount could kill hundreds of people. Thousands.”

  “And it isn’t hard to get hold of,” the coroner said. “Fact is, those castor plants grow wild, especially in the warmer regions of the state, like around the Gulf Coast area.”

  “The area where Miss Blackledge is from,” Jansen said.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, I’m sure you can log on to the Internet and buy this stuff,” Tinkie threw in. “It isn’t exactly like only one person here could find it.”

  “True,” Jansen said. “Almost anyone who wanted to kill could get it, if they had enough money.”

  “That rules Hedy out,” I said. “She’s broke.”

  Jansen gave me a long look. “Folks sometimes acquire money when they want it bad enough.”

  I shuffled the papers and located the time of death. From what Hedy had told me, it appeared Janet had died within an hour of her departure from the room. The ricin could easily have been in room service food or the pastries I’d noticed on the floor.

  “I’ve questioned the kitchen staff and the waiter who delivered food to Miss Menton,” Jansen said. “Hedy was in the room when the food arrived. She had every opportunity.”

  “And so did anyone in the kitchen. Or the tray could have been left for a moment. Or Janet could have had someone stop by her room.” Someone like Marcus Wellington. He’d gotten Hedy out of the room, I was sure. Why? Maybe to poison Janet. “If you had the evidence on Hedy, she’d be under arrest.”

  “The poison was in the pastries,” Jansen said.

  He’d deliberately riled me, but I’d learned something valuable. “Where did the pastries come from?” I asked.

  “They were apparently homemade,” Jansen said. “According to Miss Kompton, those cream cheese pastries were known to be Janet Menton’s favorites.”

  “So who made them?” I asked.

  “I intend to find out,” Jansen said.

  I flipped to the autopsy report on Brook Oniada. Sure enough, there was something strange on her skin. Ambergris.

  “Isn’t ambergris somehow connected to whales?” I asked. Visions of Moby-Dick, a book I’d hated, flashed through my mind.

  “Yes.” Marlboro looked pleased, like I’d answered a trivia question correctly. “It’s produced in the hindgut of sperm whale and was used in perfume, but not anymore. It’s been banned because folks were killing whales to harvest it. Actually, the whales expel it naturally.”

  “What’s it used for?” Jansen asked.

  “It was a fixative in perfumes. It’s a cholesterol-type substance . . . and it was once considered a culinary delicacy. It’s highly flammable.” Marlboro swallowed.

  “Where would you go about getting ambergris?” Tinkie asked.

  “Like anything else, folks can get it on the Internet,” the coroner said. He looked away, as if something troubled him. When he faced us again, he seemed to have aged at least a decade. “Ambergris is sometimes used in witchcraft or voodoo ceremonies.”

  “How did you find out about that?” I asked.

  His smile was wry. “The Internet. Like everyone else, I recognize it as a great resource.”

  “And if you found it, so could anyone else.” I made my point clearly. “The question is, who knew ambergris was both flammable and used in voodoo? Someone is making it look like Hedy is to blame.”

  “That’s a million-dollar question, Ms. Delaney,” Jansen said. “I’m sure if you find the answer, you’ll be in touch with my office.”

  “Count on it, Chief.”

  By the time Tinkie and I returned to the cooking gazebo, almost everyone had gone. Crews were there to clean up. The barbecue was over—and no one else had died.

  13

  It was ten when we finally met up with Cece and Millie at the bar in the Alluvian. They were staying the night, though they both had to get up early the next morning to return to Zinnia.

  While my friends chatted and discussed the barbecue cook-off, I heaved a sigh of relief. The body count had not risen. But it could. It might swell to huge proportions. The illness Oscar had just recovered from could be child’s play when contrasted with a minuscule release of ricin.

  I wanted to tell Cece, but both Tinkie and I had promised the coroner, and we couldn’t break our word. Cece was the ultimate professional and would never print such a thing, but still, we couldn’t tell. Ricin was so toxic, if a hint of someone using it slipped out, a panic would be easy to start and hard to stop.

  “You look worried, Sarah Booth,” Millie said.

  Since I couldn’t reveal the information about ricin, I gave them another of my concerns. “I’m a little tired. And Sweetie Pie is running wild.”

  “That hound could find her way home if she got dropped down in California,” Millie reassured me. “Remember, she did that once.”

  “She speaks the truth, dahling,” Cece said. “If she hasn’t come home by tomorrow, I’ll talk Mr. Truesdale into doing a front-page story with a photo of her. We’ll find her.”

  I nodded. My friends were doing everything they could to help me.

  “I got some great photos at the barbecue,” Tinkie said. She offered her camera so Cece and Millie could check them over.

  “These are wonderful,” Cece agreed. “The newspaper is certainly livelier since you started sending us photographs, Tinkie.”

  “Any hint of who’s ahead in the competition? It was a tough call determining the best barbecue.” Millie smoothed back a curl from her cheek. “I finally settled on the honey-basted pork roast. As you know, the scores were tallied, but won’t be revealed until the last night of the contest. We
weren’t even told who’d gotten the highest score.” Her eyes twinkled. “So who cooked the pork roast I liked so much? Since the judging was blind, I never found out.”

  Tinkie and I looked at each other. We hadn’t eaten any barbecue. “I don’t remember,” I finally said.

  “Just as well,” Millie said. “From all you’ve told me about Karrie Kompton, if I’d voted for her dish, I might have had to be rushed to the hospital to have my stomach pumped. She makes me sick.”

  “If you knew what was in her dish, you’d really be sick.” Tinkie recounted the awful episode, and she had Cece and Millie in horrified stitches. As much as they didn’t want to laugh, they couldn’t help themselves. Tinkie’s descriptions even had me smiling.

  “On that note, we need another round of martinis.” Cece signaled the waiter. “That Kompton girl is cursed. First, chocolate-covered roaches, and now, horse by-product in her barbecue. Someone really doesn’t like her.”

  “No one ate a bite of it,” I said. “The pot of barbecue was removed before anyone was served. Still, it was a moment to remember when she fished that lump out of the sauce.”

  “So how will they judge her in that event?” Millie asked.

  “I have no idea, but you can bet she won’t be disqualified. I’d hoped she might be cut from the contest. She’s such a troublemaker.”

  “In all fairness, it really wasn’t her fault that her dish was . . . contaminated,” Millie said. “It would be wrong to disqualify her from the title because someone played a practical joke on her.”

  “That was a bit more than a practical joke,” Cece said. “That was a spot of genius, dahling. Spill it. Which of you girls dropped in the road apple?”

  Tinkie and I refrained from any response. I couldn’t even look at my partner, because I was afraid I’d blow her cover.

  My cell phone rang, and my heart sank when Oscar’s name and number appeared on the screen. “It’s about Sweetie Pie,” I said to the girls before I answered. “Oscar must not have found her.” The worry I’d worked so hard to bury resurrected. Sweetie could navigate her way with an uncanny sixth sense—she should have gone home by now.