Murder and Marinade: Witches of Keyhole Lake Mysteries Book 5

by Tegan Maher

"Bobbie Sue," she answered, taking his hand. "Bobbie Sue Baker."

  "Okay, Ms. Baker, how well did you know Mr. Moore?"

  "Well enough it don't surprise me he's layin' there skewered like brisket," she said, and I took a deep breath.

  "But still," she added, "just because he deserved it don't make it right somebody up and did it."

  Gregoria had caught her second wind and pecked the sheriff on the shoulder, making demands in that horrid voice. While he was semi-distracted, I gave him a hasty goodbye, then herded Bobbie Sue away, shooting a small smile to Hunter as we left.

  As soon as we were far enough away that nobody would hear me, I said, "You know, telling somebody the murdered dude got what was coming to him isn't the best way to keep your name outta the hat."

  "Outta what hat?" she asked.

  "The suspect hat," I said, and her mouth puckered. "Folks here don't know us from Adam. It's probably a good idea to keep your opinions a little less public, especially considering the guy was spread-eagled with a giant fork stickin' out of his back."

  "I shoulda thought of that," she said, a line of worry creasing her brow. She didn't care a whit what the world thought of her and spoke her mind regardless. It was one of her best qualities, as far as I was concerned, but she also had Justin to think of now.

  "I'm sure it's no big deal," I told her, nudging her with my elbow. "I was just hoping to get you away before you said whoever did it deserves a metal."

  She tipped the corners of her mouth up in a small smile. "Well, odds are at least even I'da said it, so thanks."

  By that time, we'd made it back to their truck. Earl was his typical stoic self. I'm pretty sure Armageddon could happen right around him and he wouldn't break a sweat. Max lay by his side, scarfing down a couple of brats and some coleslaw.

  Earl closed the lid to the grill and turned to us, dabbing his forehead with a bandana. "So what was all the ruckus about?"

  "Somebody up and stabbed Mac Moore in the back with a barbecue fork," Bobbie Sue said.

  Earl stuffed his bandana back in his pocket and nodded. "Bound to happen eventually. Whoever done it deserves a medal."

  Bobbie Sue smirked at me. "Told you so."

  "Yeah," I said, wondering how many other people felt that way. "You sure did."

  CHAPTER THREE

  THERE WERE UPWARDS of fifty teams participating in the cook-off, and each team had at least two members. As far as I could tell, Mac Moore didn't have a single fan among them. The mood around the barbecue tents seemed almost cheerful, especially among the "rubbed is better than sauced" group.

  "I don't think I ever seen him place a rub over a sauce," Earl said as he loaded more wood into Susie Q. "Course that don't make no difference to me, but I'm one of the few."

  It wasn't a problem for him since he swung both ways, but he was the exception rather than the norm. His barbecue was the best I'd ever had either way, so I didn't see the big deal.

  Learn from my mistakes though, and don't ever say that out loud at a barbecue competition. Apparently, it's the smoked-meat crowd's version of insulting somebody's mama.

  He rubbed his whiskers, thinking. "You ask me, they're barkin' up the wrong tree, lookin' at folks that won or lost."

  Hunter, who was helping Bobbie Sue with the awning on the truck, frowned. "Then who do you think they should look at? Lots of money up for grabs here. It seems like following the money's the way to go."

  "Maybe so, but they're followin' the wrong money, or at least they're not followin' all the money. Way I see it, there's two things they orta be considerin' when it comes to Moore. First, we ain't all in it for the money. That's nice, but for most of us, a coupla grand ain't that big a deal when you look at what we put into it. Nah, we do it for the braggin' rights."

  He waved his tongs toward a truck parked a few spaced down on the next row over. "Take me and Jimbo over there for example. We been doin' this for near twenty years now. Some years he gets lucky and wins and some years, the chips fall where they should and I win."

  He shook his head. "The man puts cinnamon in his rub, for cryin' out loud. That's for pies, not meat." He snorted as if the idea was ludicrous.

  "Anyhow," he said, laying a few briskets on the rack, "the thing is, me and Jimbo got us a long-standin' grudge match, but we respect each other. The man knows what he's doin' and when he beats me, I know it was fair'n square. However," he said, holding up a finger, "there's been some competitions where fellers who don't know hickory from apple made it to the money, and every time, they had checkbooks bigger'n Susie Q here, and Moore was a judge. Rumor has it he didn't always follow through, even after gettin' his money. Man was a shyster and a cheat, plain and simple."

  I wasn't sure what to say as the implications settled in, because I hadn't considered it from that perspective. But Earl wasn't just a cook; he was an artist of sorts. He took his craft seriously. Looking at it from his perspective, it made sense—pride was one of the seven deadlies for a reason.

  Hunter hung the last menu sign on the truck and grabbed a beer out of the cooler, then plopped down in one of the camping chairs. "I hate to say it, but I'm glad I'm not the one in the hot seat this time. That man's looking for a needle in a haystack."

  Bobbie Sue twisted to top off her own Bud Light and shook her head. "Nope. He's lookin' for a needle in a stack of needles."

  Hunter raised a questioning brow as he took a pull off his beer.

  "She's right," Earl said, closing Susie Q's lid and adjusting the vents. "Barbecue's a fairly small community. Better'n half the teams here—includin' us—have either been screwed or think they've been screwed by Moore. And ain't a one of 'em I'd point to faster than another."

  Justin, sweaty and smiling, ran up to Bobbie Sue. "Can me and Billy go see the animals?" he said with all the exuberance of a ten-year-old on an adventure.

  "Billy and I," I automatically corrected.

  "Billy and I," he parroted.

  Another boy about his age hung back a little, waiting for the answer. They reminded me a little of hummingbirds, hovering midair just long enough to get what they wanted.

  Bobbie Sue glanced at the other boy, then back at Justin. "And who, pray tell, is Billy?"

  "He lives here. With the carnival, I mean. His mom's the psychic and his dad runs the games."

  "And where did the two of you meet? Aren't you supposed to be at the Millers' truck, hangin' out with their boy?"

  Justin hung his head a little. "Yes ma'am, but they had to leave for a while. I was on my way back here and met Billy on the way, and we got a little sidetracked. He says there's a llama and goats that fall over like they're playin' possum when they're startled over at the petting zoo."

  Cheri Lynn, a good friend of ours who happened to be enjoying her post-life, popped in, hovering over the other boy.

  He about jumped out of his skin when she appeared beside him. "Hey!" he said, smiling at her. "You look sorta like my mom!"

  She floated back from him, startled, then narrowed her eyes. "You can see me?" Despite what pop fiction liked to portray, the living-impaired community didn't like to show themselves to strangers unless there was a darned good reason.

  They didn't want their peace interrupted by glory-hunting people with silly equipment hanging around with a ton of TV cameras any more than the rest of us did. They showed themselves to folks they trusted, and even then, it required a consensus.

  "Course I can see ya," Billy said, huffing out a breath. "I don't know why every single ghost I run into is always surprised."

  What Justin had said about Billy's mom ran back through my mind and it clicked. "Ah," I said. "Your mama's a real psychic."

  He looked offended, as well he should have, I supposed. "Course she's a real psychic. Whadja think? She was one of them phonies that wears a turban and tells folks they're in terrible danger, or somethin'?"

  I deserved that. "You have to admit, there are a lot more of them than there are of your mama," I said.

  H
e drew his brows together. "I reckon you're right. We run into some real loonies on the circuit."

  No doubt, that was the truth.

  Turning to Cheri, who had inherited her exotic looks from her own Gypsy grandmother, Justin said, "Cheri Lynn'll take us over to see the llamas and stuff, won't you?"

  "Sure," she said. "As long as it's okay. I've never seen a llama, either." She turned to us. "I came to talk to y'all though, and I'm about burstin' at the seams to hear if the scuttlebutt that's made it back to Keyhole is true."

  "That's okay," Billy said. "You don't have to stay right with us. My mom's tent is close to the zoo. She helps with the animals. We can play with them and maybe get a corndog while Mom sets up her tent."

  Bobbie Sue smiled at Cheri. "If you're sure you don't mind. Meet his mama, and if you get a good vibe, ask if she minds." She turned to Justin, digging in her pocket for some cash. "I want a text every fifteen minutes, you hear?"

  He grinned, bouncing on the balls of his feet. "Yes, ma'am! I promise!"

  "Git, then," she said, handing him a ten. "Take a picture of the llama for me." She was smiling, and I was glad all over again that fate had seen fit to put Justin in our path.

  "I'll be right back," Cheri Lynn said, holding a finger up to us as the boys tore off in the direction of the carnival. "Coralee sent me, and you know she wants details."

  Coralee was the owner of Keyhole Lake's beauty parlor, and the president of the town's information dissemination circle. Most people just call it the gossip mill for short.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  WHILE CHERI LYNN WAS gone, I ran back to my tent to make sure everything was all right, then grabbed our extra camp chairs so we didn't have to sit on the coolers. There really wasn't much left to do other than set out the smaller clocks and accent pieces that I'd made, but that would wait until morning.

  The atmosphere around the campground was festive, likely because news of the murder either hadn't made the rounds yet (doubtful), or because it had. Nothing brings folks together like the chance to gather more details as events unfold.

  I was almost back to Bobbie Sue's when my phone dinged with an incoming text. Anna Mae, a good friend of mine who owned an odds-and-ends shop, wanted to know if I had room for a few of her items in my tent. When she'd first opened her shop, she'd been a little out of focus and had taken the spaghetti-against-the-wall method. Sure enough, some of it stuck.

  She'd expected the antique jewelry and knick-knacks to be her biggest sellers, but while they did well, it turned out that vintage clothing was her biggest seller. She'd found some old poodle skirts at an estate sale that just needed a little mending, so she fixed them up and sold most of them to a group of gals going to a Halloween party as the cast of Greece.

  That was a little specialized, but she had to tailor some of the skirts to fit, and it didn't take long to make the rounds that if you were looking for period-specific clothing, Anna Mae was the gal to see. Her jewelry did well too, and she was carving out her niche. I was glad, because she was Hank Dolittle's widow, and her life had been miserable when he was living.

  It had been almost a year since somebody had done the town a favor by poisoning him, and she had a successful business and a budding new relationship with another dear friend of ours who happened to live in the apartment above my barn, Matt.

  I told her to bring whatever she had, and laughed when she replied they were already on their way with their camper. "I figured worst case scenario, you'd send me packin' it all back home."

  "Pht. You knew I wouldn't. It works out, because I have plenty of space and your stuff will add some diversity." I gave her the site number and told her we'd either be there or at the BSB truck, and we disconnected.

  When I made it back to the barbecue truck, Cheri Lynn was already hovering, getting the details. She was making sure she got every one; otherwise, Coralee'd just send her back with any questions.

  "Any updates?" I asked, handing Hunter one of the chairs as I snapped my open.

  Earl shook his head. "Not really. Officials came by just to let us know they'd found another judge and the competition is still a go."

  Bobbie Sue pulled a jug of tea from the fridge and poured me some in a solo cup, then took a seat in her own chair. "We did hear that the good Mrs. Moore wasn't getting along so well with her mister, but nobody seems to know why. Somebody heard 'em arguing in their camper this morning."

  She waved her hand. "You know how that goes, though. They coulda been arguin' because he forgot to put the ham in the fridge."

  "Or maybe he was havin' an affair," Cheri Lynn said in a conspiratorial whisper.

  The memory of him lying face down, his bald spot shining, made me shudder. He'd had roughly the same shape as a fallen penguin. Combine that with the slimy personality, and just the idea of willingly sleeping with him gave me the willies.

  Bobbie Sue apparently had the same thought because she wrinkled her nose. "I haven't heard anything about that, but if he was, I can't imagine anybody's gonna confess. I sure wouldn't own it."

  "So what were his credentials," Hunter asked, stepping over a sleeping Max. "Did he own a restaurant and maybe some competitor would have wanted him dead?"

  Earl snorted. "From what I could see, the only thing he was good at was eatin'. From what I hear, he flunked outta some fancy cookin' school and went on to become a critic instead. I reckon it's just like everything. Them that can't, teach. Or in this case, judge."

  The day had become warm, and I was glad for the tent. Many of the competitors had no shade, and it wasn't long before a few of them joined us.

  Bobbie Sue and Earl had quite the group of friends in that circle, and I was surprised to see the camaraderie. I was used to the horse show circuit, and though folks were polite, the competition was often fierce and folks tended to stick with people from their own barns.

  It was a nice change of pace. Of course, the talk didn't take long to turn to Mac "Mac Daddy" Moore, and there wasn't a person there who had a good thing to say about him.

  "I heard he was about to lose his card," one grizzled older man said, referring to his judge's card.

  Earl nodded. "I'd heard the same. Seems the higher-ups were catchin' on to what us little folks have known for years—he was dirty. Even if there wasn't money changin' hands, he was still pro-marinade. Coulda been tough as shoe leather, but if it was soaked and sauced, it didn't matter. It just ain't right to see good meat win over bad."

  The statement was met with mumbles of agreement, and even I knew enough to concur with that.

  "You know he had it out with the girl from Meat and Greet, right?" a young woman wearing a Porky Pig for President t-shirt said.

  I had to ask. "What's Meat and Greet?"

  All eyes turned to me, then, realizing I wasn't officially part of the club, she said, "Meat and Greet is an online organization meant to bring the world of barbecue together. You can find teammates, talk about new equipment, arrange competitions, and talk about just about anything barbecue-related."

  Okay, that made sense. "So who did he get in a fight with?"

  "Apparently," the woman said, "he was trolling the forums, tryin' to give advice to folks he favored. The moderators intercepted some messages where he was tellin' folks privately what the judges of this or that competition looked for."

  Bobbie Sue shrugged a shoulder. "Not much you can't learn if you do your own research and know the world, but it sure did give a heads up to the noobs who hadn't earned their stripes yet. Or to the lazy ones who just ain't got the skill. 'Sides," she said, "that's twistin' the spirit of things. I mean"—she grinned and looked around—"everybody knows me and Earl got the best barbecue in three states, so we don't have to change it at all to kick butt, nor should we."

  There were a few good-natured whatevers, but it seemed recipes were a point of pride, just like in any other area of cooking. I had my own recipes that I'd worked to improve for years for pies and my other goodies, and I could see why it would be irri
tating to lose to somebody who jumped online for a cheat-sheet to pander to what judges wanted.

  There was an old, hunched man that had sat on a cooler drinking a beer, and he spoke for the first time.

  "That ain't why he was in trouble," he said, and all eyes turned to him.

  "Then why?" Earl asked.

  "He wasn't just tellin' ’em what the judges like, he gave 'em recipes," he said.

  The grizzled guy lifted a brow. "So? We just said he couldn't cook a marshmallow over a candle. What's it matter if he was tryin' to set somebody up to fail with somethin' he cobbled together?"

  The old man took a long pull of his beer, then wiped his forehead with a black, sweat-crusted bandana. "'Tweren't his recipe he was spoutin'. And he wasn't givin' it away."

  CHAPTER FIVE

  "WHAT IN THE SAM HILL are you talkin' about?" Bobbie Sue barked so loud that Max picked up his head, a little wild-eyed when he realized nobody was being killed, he dropped his nose back to the ground and closed his eyes.

  "Whose recipes were they, and who'd he try to sell 'em to?" Bobbie Sue asked, her eyes hard and glittering.

  The mood in the crowd had gone from festive to fuming, and it wasn't hard to imagine that had the self-appointed Mac Daddy of Barbecue been standing before us, there woulda been way more than one barbecue fork sticking out of him, and they wouldn't have been just in his back.

  The old man took a deep breath and slumped. "One of 'em was mine."

  There was a collective gasp, as if he'd said his granny had run naked down Main Street, but I didn't understand the big deal until Bobbie Sue pulled on my sleeve and whispered, "That's Pappy Davis of Pappy's Smokin' Pit."

  That's all she had to say. Pappy's was legendary in our parts. He was a couple counties over from us, but he was carrying on a family tradition that had been around for at least four generations. He was almost a household name, and the fierce way he guarded his family's recipe was just about as famous as his food.