Hickory Smoked Homicide

by Riley Adams

  Sara stuck her head out of the back office and peeped about; seeing Colleen, she hurried over. “She’s almost ready, Colleen. I’m sorry it’s taking Coco so long today. She was showing off her new pageant shoes to some customers, and I think she somehow lost one of them.”

  “Oh, it’s fine—I’m not in any hurry. I’ll just have a little something to eat while we wait. I was feeling a little hungry, anyway.”

  Colleen sat down at a table and ordered a couple of side orders and a drink. Sara and Lulu sat down to join her and watched in alarm as Colleen abruptly burst into loud sobbing.

  “She hates her,” said Colleen as she carefully dabbed a tissue under her eyes to keep her copious mascara from streaming down her cheeks. “Tristan Pembroke hates Pansy!”

  Lulu Taylor gave Colleen a big hug. “Now, honey, you know that your Pansy is the prettiest thing in Memphis! And the sweetest. I’m sure nobody could hate her.”

  “Then why does Pansy never win any pageant that Tristan judges?”

  Lulu’s attempt at comfort went wildly askew, as her efforts only seemed to make the tide of mascara rivulets come faster.

  Sara said glumly, “If Tristan hates Pansy, she must hate Coco, too. I’ve noticed a similar pattern when Tristan is one of the judges at Coco’s pageants.”

  “Besides, just because Tristan is always at these beauty pageants doesn’t mean that she’s causing our girls to lose,” said Lulu.

  Colleen held out a perfectly manicured, moisturized hand to Lulu. “Wanna bet? I’ll even shake on it, Lulu. I’m good friends with another one of the judges. And she has had it with Tristan. Says that she throws her weight around with the other judges and threatens to get them kicked off the circuit if they don’t go along with her voting.”

  Lulu shook her head in confusion until the little bun of white hair at the top of her head wobbled back and forth. “But why? What could Tristan possibly have against Pansy or Coco?”

  Sara said, “She’s just bitter because her own daughter wasn’t pageant material. Like it even matters,” said Sara, tapping her glass of sweet tea on the table. “We don’t even take it seriously.”

  But Lulu noticed that Sara sounded more like she was trying to persuade Colleen that they didn’t take it personally.

  Colleen pursed her ruby-lipsticked lips. “Sara Taylor, you know that Pansy and I are not competing for fun. We’re competing to win. Nothing makes that girl happier than having one of those ten-story crowns on her head, all glitzy and shiny, and everyone standing up and cheering themselves hoarse. And she’s worked on her talent until she’s one of the best fiddle players in Memphis—and I’m including the adults. And she has lots of other talents, too. You should hear her do impersonations of people. And her dance routine is absolutely amazing—everyone says so.”

  Sara looked doubtful. “You’re not turning into one of those stage mamas, are you? The kind we’re always laughing at for putting fake teeth in when their little precious has lost a front tooth?”

  “They’re called flippers, not fake teeth,” said Colleen in a put-out voice. “And if they’d been around eight years ago when Pansy first started out, you better believe I’d have stuck them in her mouth fast as lightning.”

  Sara looked thoughtful as she wound a long strand of curly red hair around her finger. “I never went the pageant route myself, of course,” said Sara, making a face. “But Coco just seemed so interested and kept asking to do it. So I finally gave in and said yes.”

  Colleen said sweetly, “Well, you could have done pageants when you were little—you’re definitely pageant material, hon.”

  Sara made a face. “Well, it’s nice of you to say so. But with my big bones, I was definitely not designed with pageants in mind. But Coco is.”

  “I’ll say she is,” said Colleen enthusiastically. “She has the most darling little face, with dimples and that thousand-watt smile. She’s that natural blond that the judges just love. And you can tell by watching her sing that she’s loving every minute of it—and she has the sweetest little voice I think I’ve ever heard come from a nine-year-old.”

  Sara said, “I’m glad you can tell she’s having fun. Because if she wasn’t having fun, there wouldn’t be any point at all.”

  “But there is a point to it, Sara. College scholarships. We simply don’t have the money to put Pansy in school. Even a state school! That’s the kind of thing you need to be thinking about, Sara. Think about the scholarships that Coco could be getting, and get a little more competitive.”

  Sara ran a hand through her riotous red spiraled curls. “She’s only nine years old, Colleen!”

  “Financial planners say that it’s never too early to plan for your child’s education.”

  Although, thought Lulu, she doubted that beauty-pageant earnings were the planners’ recommended savings route.

  “Besides,” said Colleen, “you get just as anxious during the pageants as I do, Sara. I’ve seen you strung tight like a bow. The only reason you’re not kicking up a fuss about Tristan ruining Coco’s chances at pageant wins is because she’s showing your art at her benefit-auction party this weekend.”

  Sara said, “That’s not true. I’ve never gotten into the pageant world like you have. It’s one of those things that I sort of tolerate.”

  “Well, mark my words, y’all. If Tristan Pembroke gets any whiff of your passion for art—if you let on that it’s more than a way to kill time—then you’re in trouble. She’s the kind of person who loves to crush your dreams. And she’ll just stomp right on your art if you let her.”

  Lulu said quickly, “Sara knows not to listen to criticism. She’s run into that kind of thing before and knows how to ignore it. Besides, y’all, maybe we should change the subject before Steffi comes out here.”

  Colleen froze, a forkful of coleslaw halfway to her mouth. “Steffi? Not Steffi Pembroke?”

  Lulu straightened the checkered tablecloth. “The very one.”

  “You mean to tell me that Tristan’s daughter is working here? As a waitress?” Colleen’s stage whisper projected across the Aunt Pat’s dining hall.

  Lulu nodded.

  Sara’s jaw had dropped a little. “When did this happen, Lulu? I worked the lunch shift, and she wasn’t here then.”

  “I got her set up with her apron a few minutes ago. You see,” said Lulu in a low voice, “we could definitely use another waitress. You know how crazy Aunt Pat’s gets in the evenings when the bands start playing. Having another waitress will really help us out. And—well, she asked me for some help. She had a fight with her mama, and she’s kicked her out of the house. Tristan even threatened to write the poor girl out of her will. I know she graduated from college a few months ago, and waitressing wasn’t exactly at the top of her job-hunting list.”

  Sara shrugged. “It’s a job, though. And it brings money in on a pretty regular basis. Sounds to me like that’s what she needed if she didn’t have a place to stay. Hush. . . . She’s coming up.”

  Steffi, thought Lulu, looked absolutely nothing like her immaculately groomed, still gorgeous mother. But, thankfully, she had none of her mama’s hateful ways, either. Lulu always had the feeling that Tristan Pembroke had taken it as a personal affront that her daughter hadn’t inherited her beauty. Steffi was nobody’s pretty child, with her double chins, pasty complexion, and lifeless hair. But her personality drew you right in . . . especially the way she stood up to her ruthless mother time after time.

  Steffi said, “Lulu, I wonder if I’ll ever get the hang of this. I didn’t realize how clumsy I was until I tried balancing a tray of food. Everything keeps sloshing into everything else!”

  “You’ll get used to it,” said Lulu with a laugh. “Just give yourself some time.”

  Steffi turned to Sara. “Sorry I didn’t mention to you when I saw you at Mother’s that I was going to start waitressing here. But I didn’t actually know, myself, at the time.” She made a face.

  Sara shook her head, a smile spreading
over her good-natured freckled face. “Don’t worry about it, Steffi. Lulu was telling us it was an all-of-a-sudden kind of thing.”

  Steffi rubbed her face, tiredly. “It sure was. I’m lucky I have a place to go in case of an emergency.”

  “That’s something I forgot to mention,” said Lulu mildly. “Steffi is in my guest room until she saves up enough to put down a deposit for an apartment. And maybe a little savings buffer for emergencies.”

  Big tears welled up in Steffi’s eyes. “Thanks so much again, Lulu. I don’t know what I’d have done without you. I’d have asked my aunt Marlowe, but she’s been out of town on a business trip.” She looked up and saw some orders ready for tables. “I’d better run.” And she darted off to deliver the orders to the tables.

  Colleen said slowly, “That was very sweet of you, Lulu, to keep Steffi at your house until she gets back on her feet.” She paused, took a sip of her sweet tea, and said, “But what the Sam Hill are you thinking?”

  Lulu blinked. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that as soon as Tristan Pembroke finds out that you’re aiding and abetting her daughter in standing up to her, then you’re going to have a huge mess on your hands. Huge! She might come over and roll your front lawn with toilet paper. Or maybe call a friend on the Board of Health and have Aunt Pat’s shut down for violating some crazy rule no one’s ever heard of. She’ll arrange to have a personal beverage planted right in the middle of the food-prep area. You never know what that twisted woman is going to do!”

  “Pooh,” said Lulu with a wave of her hand. “I can handle Tristan Pembroke. Besides, our arrangement is just a temporary thing. Steffi needed a place to go, and her aunt, her favorite relative, is out of town on business. She doesn’t have the cash right now for an apartment, and I had the space for a guest. It worked out real well.”

  “I’m just saying to be careful,” said Colleen, irritably. “Tristan’s tougher than she looks. I wouldn’t mess with her.”

  “Well, I’m about to have to mess with her,” said Sara grimly. “Y’all won’t believe it when you hear what she’s done to me.”

  Lulu sat back in the booth. “What? I thought she was helping you out with your art, Sara. You’re one of the big, featured artists in her benefit auction. It’s only you and a couple other artists, right? I thought it was going to be your big springboard for your art career!”

  “It is; it is,” said Sara in a hurry. “But then Tristan messed me up on something else. It’s like it isn’t in her to actually do something nice and then leave it alone. She commissioned me to paint a portrait of her. I was sort of rolling my eyes at the time, you know—who does something like that? Usually people want a portrait of their child or their beloved dog or something like that. A portrait of herself?” Sara shook her head.

  Lulu said, “I’ll admit that it’s real tacky, honey. But it sounds to me like she gave you more work to do, and that’s got to be a good thing.”

  “It was a good thing until Tristan decided she hated her portrait and won’t pay me for it. After all that work I put into it, too.” Sara looked steamed.

  A deep voice behind Sara said, “Hold on a minute. Are y’all talking about Tristan Pembroke? And pay?”

  Lulu smiled up at Morty, one-third of the Back Porch Blues Band, a regular customer of Aunt Pat’s for the past sixty years, and a good friend. He was in his eighties, resembled a black version of Mr. Clean, and kept calling himself retired, although you couldn’t tell it. He was still playing gigs as if he were a fully employed, much-younger man. “Yes, Sara was commissioned for a portrait, and Tristan has only paid her half of what she’s owed.”

  “Shoot. I hate to hear that,” said Morty, shaking his head. “She hired the band to play her benefit gig. And she’s not paying us in advance, either.” He looked glum.

  Sara said, “It’ll probably work out all right for you, Morty. Unless, that is, she doesn’t like your music.” Morty frowned in confusion, and Sara said, “That’s what happened to me—she didn’t like the way the portrait turned out.”

  Colleen said, “Isn’t that just like Tristan? Why? Didn’t you draw her pretty enough to suit her?”

  Sara pointed her finger at Colleen. “Bingo! Hit the nail on the head. No, apparently I didn’t depict Tristan quite as gorgeous as she thinks herself to be. I’ll admit that the more time I spent with her, trying to help her organize the art side of the auction, the more I disliked her. My dislike might have spilled over into the portrait. Just the same, she commissioned the painting, and she was responsible for paying for it. Nobody’s going to buy a portrait of someone else. I’ve half a mind to try to put it up for auction at the benefit.” She snapped her fingers. “Know what? That’s what I’m going to do.”

  Colleen looked nervous at the very thought of it. “It doesn’t sound like a good idea to me. Tristan will be furious! And if she thinks the portrait isn’t a good likeness, then she’s sure going to be upset at a whole party viewing it.”

  “What else can I do?” asked Sara with a shrug. “The benefit will be the best time for me to get rid of the portrait. I’ll be sure to give it to the auctioneer after all my other paintings have been sold. At least I’ll get something out of the work I put in—and there’ll be a donation to charity, too.”

  There was a booming laugh, and Lulu looked up to see her favorite policeman, Pink Rogers, smiling down at them. He wore, as usual when he was off-duty, one of the pastel button-down shirts that had earned him his nickname. But then, at a very fit and trim six feet seven inches and two hundred and fifty pounds, who was going to give him grief over his choice of clothing?

  “I was just wondering what was going on at this table, that’s all,” said Pink, grinning. “I don’t know when I’ve seen such stormy faces. Even Morty looks upset, and he’s usually such a laid-back guy.”

  Colleen scooted over and patted the space next to her on the booth. “Well, have a seat and I’ll be happy to fill you in, hon.” Lulu could tell that that wasn’t exactly what Pink had in mind—he was a sitting-at-the-lunch-counter kind of guy. But he took a seat, and Colleen said, “We’re all furious with Tristan Pembroke. Mad enough to spit!” Lulu flagged down a waitress and asked her to bring Pink’s usual order, since she knew her regular always ordered the same thing.

  The indignant Colleen filled in Pink with her story. “Pansy won Miss Peach, Miss Magnolia, and Miss Barbeque,” said Colleen. “But she’d get a whole lot further if certain people weren’t cheaters. And so would Coco,” she added. “There’s no reason why Coco shouldn’t have won a Little Miss pageant by now. It’s all Tristan Pembroke’s sabotage.”

  Pink was looking like he wished he’d sat over at the lunch counter and hadn’t come over to their table at all, thought Lulu. “I remember hearing some sabotage story some time back. But you’re saying she’s doing other things to make Pansy lose?”

  “Oh, she does little petty things from time to time that don’t help—like stealing Pansy’s duct tape.”

  “Duct tape?” asked Pink in a weak voice.

  “It helps keep dresses and swimsuits in place,” said Colleen. “It’s very important to keep stuff from falling out of their swimsuits. But Tristan does other things, too—she votes against her and makes the other judges vote against her, too. And y’all know what she did to Pansy a few months ago—it made big news.” Lulu didn’t actually know about it, but Colleen wasn’t giving her a chance to ask her. “And Tristan is clearly using some insider information to get ahead when she’s coaching girls. All I have to say is that she better look out. One of these days, I’m coming after her.”

  Pink raised his eyebrows at Colleen.

  “Oh, shoot. I keep forgetting you’re a cop, Pink. Don’t worry.... I’m not planning on putting a hit on Tristan.”

  Pink looked relieved and picked up a spicy corn muffin for a big bite.

  “Not yet, anyway.”

  Chapter 3

  Later that afternoon, Lulu’s son, Ben, said to hi
s wife, Sara, “Mother is going to be so excited. For a while I’ve been following this guy online who has a food blog that’s gotten really big. He does interviews with chefs, posts recipes, interviews cookbook authors . . . the works. He has a following in the thousands on his blog and is huge on Facebook and Twitter, too.”

  Sara said, “Why would your mama be interested in that, Ben? She’s not a blog reader and sure isn’t on Facebook and Twitter.”

  “He’s packed up shop and moved to Memphis, that’s why. Think about it, Sara—it’s a fantastic opportunity to introduce him to Aunt Pat’s. Besides, barbeque just isn’t food in Memphis—it’s a culture. He’s going to be dying to find out more about how barbeque meshes with life here in Memphis.”

  “If you say so,” said Sara doubtfully.

  “I was talking to Derrick the other day, and your nephew knows more about social-media branding than you can shake a stick at! I’m thinking that’s the way to move Aunt Pat’s into the twenty-first century, Sara. We’ll embrace the food bloggers—especially this guy, who is such a huge influence. They have a much bigger audience than the newspaper food critics. We don’t have to rely on only local traffic—we could make Aunt Pat’s a real destination!” His eyes shone.

  “So you’re thinking about getting your mama to call him up and invite him over to the restaurant? Maybe make sure he has a first-class meal with us? Then he’ll blog about it to all his followers?”

  Ben hesitated. “Well, yes. That’s what would make sense, of course. But the reality is that Mother shuts down whenever I mention the Internet to her. She’d reject this idea right out of the box. So I went ahead and e-mailed him. . . . See, Sara, you e-mail people like him. He’s an online guy. He’s planning on coming by tomorrow and checking out Aunt Pat’s.”

  Sara had a feeling that she still wasn’t getting the full story out of Ben. “And that’s it? I guess he’ll probably want a couple of pictures of your mom. She’s kind of the face behind the restaurant now, even if she isn’t spending as much time in the kitchen as she used to.”