Kill 'Em with Cayenne

by Gail Oust

  I could feel my face heat. “What kind of relationship is that?”

  “The let’s-chat-over-pizza variety—especially considering you’re CJ’s ex.”

  “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “Those two have been at each other’s throats since they were boys. Just because CJ dumped you doesn’t mean the guy wants to watch you cozy up to his old nemesis. Don’t be fooled, honey.” She lowered her voice. “Wyatt’s just using you to rattle CJ’s cage.”

  My jaw dropped. Words deserted me. I’d known from the get-go there was no love lost between the two men. But it never once occurred to me that Wyatt McBride and CJ might be playing a game of one-upmanship with me as the pawn. I didn’t believe it for a New York minute; still the thought rankled.

  Barbie seemed pleased at my reaction. Tossing her long hair over her shoulder, she sauntered toward the exit. “Bye-bye.”

  “Don’t pay that bimbo no nevermind,” Precious counseled. “She’s the type who likes to cause trouble. I’ve seen her kind in action before.”

  “Thanks.” I sounded as dispirited as I felt.

  “Chief just signaled for you to report to his office,” Precious said moments later. “You need anythin’, just speak up, you heah?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Precious’s offer coaxed a smile from me. I placed the pizza box on the countertop in front of her. “Help yourself.”

  “Don’t tempt me.” She shook her head until the colorful beads on her braids rattled “I’m on a diet. Got my eye on a new man—friend of my brother Bubba. Had me a Lean Cuisine and a diet soda when I had my break. Just leave the pizza. I’ll guard it for you.”

  I knew the way to McBride’s office from previous visits. Time to put on your big-girl panties and not let Barbie’s words affect you, I lectured myself as I walked down the hall. Drawing a deep breath, I knocked on his door, then entered without waiting for an invitation. McBride glanced up from behind a mountain of paperwork on his desk. “Hey,” he said.

  “You told me to come by later to sign my statement.”

  “Right, right.” He shuffled through a stack of papers until he found the one he was looking for and handed it to me. “Read it over carefully,” he instructed. “Make sure it corresponds to what you told me earlier. Then sign it.”

  “All righty.” He sounded a bit testy, so I didn’t want to try his patience further. Clearly, he was feeling the pressure of a long day. Sinking down in the chair opposite him, I read the typed report and slid it back to him unsigned.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked, skewering me with a look from his frosty blues.

  “I can’t sign this.”

  “And why can’t you?”

  Some folks might’ve squirmed at his tone, but I held my ground. “Because the statement is incorrect. It should read that Piper Prescott’s dog, Casey, found the body and not Piper Prescott found the body.”

  McBride appeared as though he wanted to argue, then changed his mind. “Fine,” he agreed. “I’ll have Precious correct your statement to read: ‘Mrs. Prescott states her dog, Casey, discovered the body.’ Is it accurate to include that Mrs. Prescott proceeded to make the nine-one-one call since her pet was otherwise occupied being a cadaver dog?”

  “No call to get sarcastic,” I retorted.

  “I’m not being sarcastic. I’m merely aiming for accuracy, since you always seem to think I’m in need of correcting.”

  “Only when it’s necessary.”

  He huffed out a breath. “You’re doing it again—correcting me.”

  When I refused to engage in a verbal sparring match, he issued orders to Precious via an intercom to make the requested changes. I studied him covertly. Even though his navy-blue uniform was as crisp as it had been that morning, his face looked tired. I felt an unbidden flood of sympathy for the man and his job. My eyes chanced to fall on a handful of paint chips in various colors at the edge of his desk. “Getting ready to give this place a face-lift?” I asked to lighten the mood.

  He appeared puzzled at first, but his expression cleared when he realized what I was referring to. “Yeah, it’s long overdue. Getting money for a couple gallons of paint was tougher than asking to pay for a root canal out of petty cash. I even offered to do the painting myself.”

  ”So,” I said, examining the samples, “what color did you decide on.”

  “It’s a toss-up between Belgian Waffle and Banana Cream Pie.”

  “Mmm.” I studied first one swatch, then the other. “I’d pick the Belgian Waffle. Maybe use Whipped Cream for the trim.”

  “I take it Whipped Cream is a paint color.”

  “Right up there with Banana Cream Pie. I used the color to paint the woodwork in my apartment, if you’d like to see what it looks like.”

  A ghost of a smile flickered across his mouth. “I’ll have to check it out one of these days.”

  Once again, I felt my face flush. I’d brazenly just gone and invited the man to my apartment. With Becca dead was I going to be the next “hussy”? Thankfully, I heard Precious’s footsteps in the hall and was spared further self-flagellation.

  “Here you go, Chief,” she said, handing him the edited version of my statement. “Seein’ as how you have a long night ahead of you, I put on a fresh pot of coffee. I’ll bring some soon’s it’s done. What about you, Piper? You want a cup?”

  “Thanks, Precious, but I can’t stay.”

  She left and I scanned the changes she’d made, scrawled my name at the bottom, and shoved it over to him. “There you go. Signed, sealed, and delivered.”

  McBride added it to a folder, then leaned back in his chair and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Hard to believe there’s been two murders in the short time I’ve been in office. A regular crime spree. Mayor’s demanding to know if someone tampered with the drinking water.”

  Murder? A Titanic-size iceberg seemed lodged in my chest. “You’re absolutely certain Becca was murdered?”

  “No doubt about it,” he sighed. “The medical examiner just faxed over preliminary findings. Becca Dapkins’s death appears to have been a robbery gone south. Jewelry gone. Handbag missing.”

  “Becca wasn’t rich. She worked at a low-paying job. Who’d want to rob her?”

  “We’re in the process of checking things out. In some cases, the killer often turns out to be the husband or significant other.”

  I stared at McBride in disbelief. “Surely you don’t think Buzz Oliver had anything to do with Becca’s death? He wouldn’t hurt a fly. Well, actually that’s not true,” I admitted in the spirit of full disclosure. “The man is in the pest control business. Termites and scorpions are normally his targets, not the woman he’s dating.”

  “You’d be shocked at the inhumanity people inflict on one another—even those they profess to love.”

  Silence permeated the room for a long moment. It was obvious McBride had seen more than his share of death at the hands of loved ones. Finally, I cleared my throat. “Did the medical examiner give the cause of death?”

  McBride nodded grimly. “Becca Dapkins was bludgeoned.”

  “Bludgeoned…?” I gasped. “Did you find the murder weapon?”

  “No, not yet. Murder weapon might not be so easy to find in this case.”

  “Why is that?”

  McBride drummed his fingers on the desk. “The ME found traces of fat and connective tissue in the head wound.”

  “What kind of weapon would leave fat and connective tissue behind?” I wondered aloud.

  “The ME’s running more tests, but he’s convinced it was a beef brisket.”

  “Unbelievable,” I murmured. “Becca Dapkins killed with a cheap cut of meat.”

  CHAPTER 8

  “PIZZA DELIVERY,” I sang out.

  “Someone’s got their wires crossed. I didn’t order—” Reba Mae ended her tirade mid-sentence at finding me on her doorstep. “Piper, what on earth?”

  “Hungry?” I asked when she stepped aside

&nb
sp; “Well, yeah, kinda sort of,” she admitted, eyeing the box in my hand. “I was just about to fix myself a peanut butter sandwich. The boys are playin’ in a softball tournament tonight. Said not to bother fixin’ ’em supper. They’d grab a burger after the game.”

  I headed for her kitchen. “Well, since that’s the case, can I interest you in a pepperoni-and-mushroom pie with a side Greek salad?”

  “Heck yeah. How about a nice glass of merlot to help wash it down?”

  “You don’t have to twist my arm. A glass of wine is just what the doctor ordered after the day I had.” I turned the dial on Reba Mae’s oven and set the temperature to low. “I need to pop this baby into the oven to reheat. It’s been setting for nearly an hour in McBride’s waiting room while I reviewed the statement I gave this morning.”

  Reba Mae got out a baking sheet and watched me slide the pizza onto it. “I take it my favorite lawman wasn’t in the mood for pizza.”

  “Actually, I arrived too late.”

  “How’s that?” Reba asked over her shoulder as she took plates from a cupboard.

  “Seems like the Cooking Network’s shining star, aka Barbie Q, had already brought him a piping-hot pizza.” I found silverware and napkins and proceeded to set the table. I knew Reba Mae’s kitchen like the back of my hand. And she knew mine. That was part of being BFFs.

  “What the…? Barbie brought him pizza? How well do the two know each other?”

  “Quite well, judging from my front-row seat at their reunion tour,” I replied.

  Reba Mae worked the cork out of a bottle of merlot and poured us each a glass. “I’d bet my last bottle of peroxide that woman’s up to somethin’.”

  “She said she dropped by to ask McBride for an interview.”

  “And you believed her?”

  I shrugged. “Yes and no. On one hand, Barbie’s ambitious and thinks a dead body in the town square might be a big break career-wise. Yet on the other side of the coin, she and McBride share a history, so her interest in him might be strictly personal.”

  While Reba Mae divvied up the salad, my eyes wandered around her cozy kitchen. Like Reba Mae herself, the room was unpretentious and straightforward. Formica countertops, aging appliances, and a no-wax vinyl floor. In spite of her weakness for flashy clothes and even flashier shoes, Reba Mae pinched pennies.

  I took a sip of wine and reminisced. Once upon a time, we’d been next-door neighbors. We’d bonded over teething, potty training, and General Hospital. Then CJ’s struggling law practice took off and, in keeping with his image, we’d moved to a bigger house in a newer development. The one thing that hadn’t changed though was mine and Reba Mae’s friendship. That had remained constant. Not even a country club membership, fancy car, or gold Visa changed that. Reba Mae’s twins, Clay and Caleb, were best friends too with my Chad and treated Lindsey like the baby sister they never had.

  When Butch died in a tragic accident while bass fishing, Reba Mae discovered they were deep in credit card debt. Butch was a great guy but not one to worry about tomorrow. He thought he’d live to a ripe old age. After things settled down, I’d loaned Reba Mae money for beauty school. Later, I helped her finance the Klassy Kut and let CJ think I’d used the money for a tummy tuck. She’d paid back every dime—with interest.

  “Might as well start while the pizza warms up.” Reba Mae set a plate piled high with salad in front of me. “Dig in.”

  I speared a cherry tomato. “Mmm. I’m famished.”

  “Any chance McBride mention what killed Becca?”

  “More like a ‘who’ than a ‘what.’”

  “Who … as in a person?” Reba Mae missed the cherry tomato she aimed at and it skittered across the table.

  I picked it up and popped it into my mouth. “That would be correct. The medical examiner said she was bludgeoned.”

  Reba Mae stared at me, her fork poised halfway to her mouth. “No kiddin’.”

  “Even more to the point, the ME’s almost certain the murder weapon—get ready for this—was a beef brisket.”

  Her salad forgotten, Reba Mae set down her fork down and reached for her wine. “Wow,” she said after taking a gulp. “I wasn’t expectin’ that.”

  “I would’ve been less surprised if she’d been beaned with a can of soup.” I got up and removed the pizza from the oven. “All this publicity will be bad for the barbecue festival.”

  “Or it might work just the opposite.” Reba Mae helped herself to a slice. “Nothin’ like morbid curiosity to draw a crowd.”

  “Well, if Barbie Quinlan has a say this town will turn into a three-ring circus. She fancies herself Lois Lane, girl reporter.” I bit into pizza smothered in gooey mozzarella. “Then fade to gray as she and Wyatt McBride ride off into the sunset.”

  “Think you’re makin’ too much out of two old friends seein’ each other again?”

  “You don’t have to know Morse code to interpret the signals she was sending out. I don’t know why I’m obsessing over it. I already have a terrific man in my life,” I said, referring to Doug Winters, the very nice vet who not only had saved Casey’s life but also bought expensive saffron from my shop.

  “There you go,” Reba Mae said. “Doug’s not only a great guy, but he likes to cook. What more could a girl put on her wish list?”

  “You’re absolutely right. Doug is … special. It was my lucky day when he happened to waltz into Spice It Up! Not only that, he’s been a positive influence on Lindsey since she started working part-time at his animal clinic. Because of him, she talks about becoming a veterinarian one day. Speaking of Doug and cooking,” I said, reaching for my wineglass, “he called to tell me he entered the backyard division of the competition. Said he’s been experimenting with mopping sauces. Wanted to know if I’d object if he asked Lindsey to be part of his team.”

  “Sounds like a good idea if you want my opinion. It’ll help keep Lindsey’s mind off breaking up with that no-’count boyfriend of hers.” Reba Mae took another slice, then pushed the pan in my direction. “Does McBride have any suspects?”

  “It’s still early yet. He mentioned it might’ve been a botched robbery. Becca’s jewelry was missing and so was her purse. He also said something to the effect that husbands and significant others were often the guilty parties. I gathered he was going to question Buzz.”

  “Buzz?” Reba Mae topped off our wine. “McBride surely can’t think Buzz would harm Becca?”

  I shrugged. “I’m no mind reader, but he might have heard talk that Buzz blamed Becca for his gallbladder attack. After all, she was the reason he had to have emergency surgery. The quiet ones like Buzz are the types you have to watch. They keep things bottled up and then … pow! They explode.”

  Reba Mae rolled her eyes. “Where did you hear that? Dr. Phil?”

  I kept silent, too embarrassed to admit that might well have been my source.

  Reba Mae leaned back, wineglass in hand. “Gossip goin’ around the Klassy Kut has it that Becca was spittin’ mad ’cause Buzz paid more attention to Maybelle at the Baptist church ice-cream social than to her.”

  “Blame all his attention on the fact that Maybelle baked her to-die-for Hummingbird Cake. Not a soul alive can resist her Hummingbird Cake. She’s been asked for the recipe dozens of times, but refuses to share.”

  “When it comes to cooking, Becca can’t compete with a five-year-old, much less Maybelle. Without a can opener, she’s as helpless as a fish out of water.”

  “Change that to past tense,” I reminded Reba Mae.

  “Duly noted,” Reba Mae agreed somberly.

  “At any rate, McBride intends to call Buzz down as part of the official murder investigation.”

  Reba Mae was about to comment further when the back door swung open.

  “Hey, Mama,” Clay said, then turned to me. “Hey, Miz Piper,”

  “Hey yourself,” I said, giving him the once-over. Reba Mae’s boys were big, strapping lads with her dark hair and good looks and their daddy�
�s pretty hazel eyes. The easiest way to tell them apart was by their hair. Clay favored his cut short while Caleb’s, much to his mother’s chagrin, reached almost to his shoulders.

  “Your mama’s going to have to use her bag of tricks to get that softball uniform clean,” I told him, taking in the sweat stains under his arms and the Georgia red clay ground into the knees.

  “Naw, Mama’s a mean one.” He grinned. “She makes me and my brother do our own laundry. Said she’s trainin’ us to be good husbands.”

  “Darn right,” Reba Mae retorted. “You’re home early, Son.”

  Clay fixated on the half-eaten pizza on the table. “I’d sure hate to see that fine-lookin’ pizza go to waste when there’s starvin’ children in the world.”

  “Charity begins at home,” I said, shoving it toward him.

  “You might want to save some for your brother,” Reba Mae commented as she watched her boy wolf down a slice.

  “Caleb hooked up with a cute little blonde in a red halter top,” Clay said around a mouthful. “She offered to buy him a burger.”

  Reba Mae laughed and shook her head. “That boy is so easily bribed, it’s pitiful.”

  Clay reached for another slice. “Could have told the girl to save her money. It was a done deal with just the halter top. Take me for instance; I’m just the opposite when it comes to the ladies.”

  “How’s that?” I asked, forever curious to learn the workings of a man’s mind.

  Pizza finished, Clay headed for the fridge and pulled out a gallon of milk.

  “No drinkin’ straight from the jug,” Reba Mae was quick to admonish. “Use a glass.”

  “Didn’t I tell you Mama was a meanie?” He winked at me but took a glass from the cupboard. “Now, as to my technique with women, I’m more subtle than Caleb. I’m taking cues from Chief McBride and playing hard to get.”