by Gail Oust
“Brisket, ribs, pork butt, you name it. Can’t keep ’em in stock. What about you? Spices flying off the shelves?”
“At the moment, cayenne seems to be leading the pack, with cumin coming in a poor second.”
“Folks tend to lose sight of the two essentials for a never-fail barbecue—a low cooking temperature and a cloud of woodsmoke. Some tend to think any old woodsmoke will do, but they’re dead wrong. As any barbecuer worth their salt knows, you gotta use hardwood,”
“Why?” I asked. “What happens if you don’t?”
“Take my wife’s nephew for instance.” Pete chuckled at the memory. “The fool used scraps of wood he hauled home from a construction site. Worst darn barbecue I ever ate. Might as well have coated them baby backs with varnish, thanks to all the resin in the wood.”
“Sounds pretty awful,” I commiserated as I followed Pete to the register where he proceeded to ring up my order. “I don’t suppose by chance you remember how many briskets Becca Dapkins ordered.”
“Let’s see now.” Pete scratched the bald spot at the top of his head. “Six, she ordered six.”
“You’re sure about the number?”
“Yeah, ’cause I recall thinking that was strange, since she never cooked anything that didn’t call for cream of mushroom soup. But she was a woman on a mission. Bound and determined to win the Taster’s Choice award. Wanted to prove to everyone she was every bit as good a cook as Maybelle Humphries.”
Six briskets minus one. Reba Mae and I had found five briskets in Becca’s freezer. And most likely the missing one was the murder weapon. This information served to confirm my conviction that Becca had been killed at home.
I fished my wallet out of my purse and paid Pete for the chicken. “Thanks, Pete.”
He chuckled as he walked me to the door. “I’d be willing to lay odds that most every house in Brandywine Creek has one or more of my briskets in their fridge.”
Easy come, easy go. So much for thinking I’d found where the murder weapon originated when, according to Pete, half the people in town had an identical weapon as near as their refrigerator. Perhaps McBride was right when he said I should leave sleuthing to the professionals.
Parking behind my shop, I traipsed through the vacant lot to the rear door of Spice It Up! My constant to-and-fro had worn a path through the weeds and scrub.
“Hey, Lindsey!” I called out. “I’m back!”
Tail wagging furiously, Casey acknowledged my return with more enthusiasm than a Walmart greeter. As I passed through the storage area, I heard people talking, Lindsey’s animated voice among them.
“Hey,” I said, “care if I join the party?”
“Oh, hi, Mom,” Lindsey said, her face flushed becomingly. “This is Carter Kincaid.”
Carter turned out to be the same young man I’d seen yesterday stepping out of Barbie’s SUV. Up close and personal, he was quite good-looking in a scruffy sort of way. He had nice even features, a stubble-covered jaw, a mop of brown hair, and gray-green eyes. I placed him in his early twenties. “Hello, Carter.”
“Nice to meet you, ma’am.” He stuck out his hand, which I accepted.
Ma’am? I cringed inwardly. I didn’t feel old enough to be called ma’am. I was saving “ma’am” for when I turned eighty. I stowed my purse beneath the counter and slipped on an apron. “What brings you here, Carter? Are you in the market for spice?”
“No, ma’am,” he said with an engaging smile that showcased years of orthodontia. “Barbie—Ms. Quinlan—asked me to stop by, check out the natural light. She’s considering your place for a segment on Some Like It Hot.”
“Carter’s a videographer.” Lindsey’s words tumbled over themselves in her excitement. “He was telling me all about his work.”
Carter tucked his hands in his jeans pockets. “Your daughter’s extremely photogenic, Mrs. Prescott. She has a keen eye for detail.”
Folding my arms over my chest, I cocked my head and studied my daughter, noting her pink cheeks, the sparkle in her blue-gray eyes. “Does she now?”
Lindsey shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “Carter offered to show me how things look from behind the lens. He said he’s going to suggest they film me working on Doug’s team.”
“Naturally, the final call belongs to Barbie,” Carter quickly interjected. “And you’ll need to sign a waiver.”
“Carter says Ms. Quinlan wants to break into investigative journalism,” Lindsey offered, all wide-eyed and duly impressed.
“Hmm,” I said. “Is that so?”
Carter nodded solemnly. “Barbie thinks murder in a small town on the eve of its annual festival might be the ticket to making the jump to cable news.”
“CNN or Fox,” Lindsey volunteered. “How cool is that?”
“Cool,” I echoed with noticeably less enthusiasm.
A popular drinking song—something about a red Solo cup—suddenly blared from Carter’s pocket. He dug out a smart phone and frowned at the display. “Sorry, gotta run. See you around, Lindsey. Nice meeting you, ma’am.”
Lindsey and I stood in the front window and watched him climb into the white Escalade and drive off.
“Isn’t he something?” Lindsey breathed. “A career in television must be awesome. I think I’d like to have a TV show of my own someday. You heard Carter say I was photogenic.”
I stared at her in dismay. “I thought you wanted to be a veterinarian like Dr. Winters.”
“Mo-om,” she wailed. “That was weeks ago.”
“Speaking of Doug, he needs your advice on T-shirts and wants to know if you can recruit a couple friends to help on his team. Unless I’m mistaken, he’s expecting you at the animal clinic this afternoon.”
“Right. I’m practically on my way.” Lindsey ran to the counter and snatched her purse. “I wonder if Ms. Quinlan would let me hang around while she’s in town. Give me some pointers.”
I sighed wearily. Just what the world needed, another Barbie-Q Bombshell. Oh, happy day—not.
CHAPTER 17
THE SHOP SEEMED unnaturally quiet after Lindsey left. I took out a pad and studied my notes for a window display aimed at enticing barbecue aficionados into my shop. I reminded myself to ask Reba Mae if I could borrow the compact grill the twins used for camping. Somewhere I had a set of barbecue tools. A sack of charcoal, a red-and-white-checked tablecloth, and one of my yellow Spice It Up! aprons with its chili pepper logo should make a colorful, eye-catching display. As a final touch, I’d add baskets of whole fresh chili peppers in all their glorious shapes, colors, and sizes. My imagination ran rampant. Yellow, orange, and dark-red habaneras. Bright-green jalapeños. Coffee-brown chipotles.
I was so engrossed in planning that I failed to notice the time until the regulator clock bonged the hour. It was then I saw that the roll of paper in my credit card machine needed replacing. No time like the present, I thought as I bent down and reached for a refill under the counter.
Letting out a shriek, I leaped back as a spider scuttled out from under the box. I registered the long pinchers, the hook-shaped stinger. This wasn’t an ordinary “spider” but a scorpion. Before I could do more than watch, it disappeared under a row of freestanding shelves. Awakened from his doggy snooze by the commotion, Casey raced to my rescue, performing an award-worthy version of a ferocious growl.
“It’s all right, puppy. Settle down; it’s okay.” I gave myself the same advice.
Now I’m not partial to the creatures any more than my daughter is, but I’m less prone to hysterics. Lindsey would’ve gone ballistic. She’s definitely an arachnophobe. Has been ever since she found a big old spider in the restroom at Elijah Clark State Park where CJ and I took the kids camping one summer.
Knowing a scorpion sighting would send Lindsey heading for CJ’s scorpion-free home on a golf course, I reached for the phone. The woman who answered at Bugs-B-Gone promised she’d send an exterminator the next day. Another unanticipated expense, I thought glumly as I hung
up. There went the ridiculously but oh, so coveted cool pair of running shorts I’d had my heart set on. I locked the front door of Spice It Up! and flipped the sign to CLOSED.
A glance at the clock told me I had plenty of time to prepare chicken salad before meeting up with Reba Mae at Becca’s house. I parboiled the chicken while I diced celery, toasted almonds, and halved red grapes. When the chicken was cool enough to handle, I cut it into bite-size pieces. I mixed in mayo, fresh-squeezed lemon juice, and the rest of the ingredients. Last but by no means least, I added a pinch of curry powder that I’d mixed from a combination of turmeric, coriander, and cardamom, to name a few of the spices. When the chicken salad was done, I popped it in the refrigerator for later.
Even at this hour, the July heat and humidity were unrelenting, so I opted to drive the short distance to Becca’s rather than arrive dripping wet and out of sorts. Reba Mae’s five-year-old Buick was parked at the curb. She waited for me in the shade of the front porch. Apparently, she was also averse to being sweaty and cranky.
“Hope this won’t take long,” she said as I came up the walk. “Wally’s comin’ by later and bringin’ a bottle of wine.”
“You and Judge Wally seem to be hitting it off. Think you ought to slow things down a bit? After all, you just met the guy and don’t know much about him.”
“It’s been years since a man paid me this much attention, so don’t go spoilin’ it for me.” Reba Mae produced a house key and opened the door. “He’ll be leavin’ soon as the festival’s over, and my man drought will start up again.”
Inside, Becca’s house felt uncomfortably warm, the air stagnant. The air conditioner hummed, but the thermostat had been set to conserve energy. A gray film of dust coated the dark wood of the coffee table and tea cart. Only the collection of African violets livened up an otherwise dismal atmosphere.
Reba Mae planted her hands on her hips and surveyed the scene. “Felicity said Becca’s kids stayed at her bed-and-breakfast rather than at their mother’s home. They claimed this old place gave them the willies.”
“Do you think they’ll mind us giving away her houseplants?”
“Heck no. They’d probably say good riddance.” Reba Mae walked over to one with ruffled violet and white blooms and stuck her index finger in the soil. “Feels like they can wait another day or two before waterin’.”
I wandered around the room hoping I might spot something we missed on our previous visit.
“One of my customers, Pinky Alexander, might take a couple plants off our hands.”
“Good.” I nodded. “Melly has a way with them, too. Maybe she’ll take some.”
“Pinky said light and proper waterin’ were real important. Need to keep the soil moist but never let it get soggy.”
I raised a brow. “Should I be taking notes?”
“No need for sarcasm, missy,” Reba Mae chided. “Pinky told me always water from the bottom and make sure the water’s room temperature. If it’s too cold, it chills the plant’s poor little roots and makes its leaves curl.”
I opened and shut the drawer of an end table. A true-crime novel, a crossword puzzle book, and dog-eared copies of TV Guide were the only items.
Reba Mae trailed after me. “Pinky said avoid gettin’ water on the leaves at all costs. It causes spottin’. And one last thing—never use soft water, because it changes the pH of the soil.”
“The tutorial over?” I asked, heading for the kitchen with Reba Mae on my heels.
The telltale odor of bleach still lingered. I peeked into the pantry cum laundry room. “Only thing missing is the empty bleach jug. The GBI guys must’ve taken it for prints.”
Reba Mae examined the contents of the refrigerator. “Once the festival’s over, we need to give this thing a good cleanin’ out. No sense hangin’ on to half-empty bottles of catsup and salad dressin’.”
“McBride’s going to need more than a broken fingernail to change his mind about the scene of the crime,” I said, unable to keep the disappointment from my voice. “I don’t know what I expected to find.”
“The killer’s name scrawled in blood?”
“Yeah, right,” I muttered.
“Don’t turn up your nose at the notion, missy. I saw that in a movie once—creeped me out. Problem was the cops couldn’t figure out the victim’s handwritin’ and arrested the wrong guy. We done yet?”
“Almost.” About ready to admit defeat, I opened the cabinet below the sink and found a two-gallon scrub bucket filled with cleaning supplies. Dish detergent, glass cleaner, all-purpose cleaner, furniture polish, and sponges were all jammed inside. Nothing out of the ordinary.
Or was there?
I stared at the items thoughtfully for a moment. I was about to close the cabinet when I was struck by a sudden realization. “Come here a sec, Reba Mae. Take a look and tell me if you see something odd.”
Reba Mae scrunched down and stared long and hard at the inside of the cabinet. “Looks pretty much like stuff I keep under my sink except—”
“—there’s no rubber gloves,” I finished triumphantly.
“What are you gettin’ at?”
“Doesn’t it strike you as … peculiar … that a woman so fussy about her appearance, one who never left home without fresh lipstick or with chipped nail polish, doesn’t own a pair of rubber gloves?”
“Well, yeah, I guess when you put it that way.”
“What if—for the sake of argument—Becca was killed in her own kitchen?” My earlier suspicions seemed to crystallize. “What if her killer used bleach and gloves to remove the evidence?”
“Makes sense”—Reba Mae rubbed her arms—“in a scary sort of way. Now can we go?”
* * *
Reba Mae had no sooner driven off when my cell phone rang.
“Mom…?” I heard Lindsey’s voice. “Just wanted to tell you I won’t be home for supper. Amber invited me over to look at bridal magazines. She has some amazing ideas for her and Dad’s wedding.”
Amber was my cross to bear. In a ploy to appear a “cool” stepmom, she’d asked Lindsey to be her maid of honor at a destination wedding. “Have the lovebirds decided on a location yet?”
“Right now it’s between Costa Rica and the Dominican Republic. Turks and Caicos hasn’t been ruled out either.”
I envisioned somewhere else for the pair. A deserted island in the Pacific instantly sprang to mind. One with an active volcano. “Give the two my best,” I said through gritted teeth. “Have a good time, but don’t be late.”
I hit the disconnect. During the short drive home, I mulled over what I should do about the absence of rubber gloves in Becca’s house. McBride dismissed the importance of finding a broken fingernail. Being a dyed-in-the-wool skeptic, he’d probably be even less impressed with missing rubber gloves.
When I turned down the street behind my shop, I spotted a police cruiser occupying my normal parking space. McBride slid out from behind the wheel. I slid out from behind mine, and we met somewhere in the middle. I felt a flutter in my stomach but blamed it on hunger. The sight of an alpha male had nothing whatsoever to do with my reaction. Tall, dark, and rugged wasn’t my type.
I motioned at the soda cans, beer bottles, and food wrappers that accumulated in the empty lot like iron shavings to a magnet. “Passing out tickets for littering?”
“No, but if you’re interested, I could deputize you for the job.”
“I’ve often wondered how much money law enforcement actually collects from littering fines.” I started down the weed-choked path leading to my back door.
He matched his stride to mine. “Not enough to buy a pack of gum.”
“So if it’s not busting miscreants, what brings you here?”
“I had an interesting conversation with one of our out-of-town guests. I’d like to hear your version of his story.”
I shoved my key into the lock. “That sounds ominous.”
“Ominous enough for me to skip dinner.”
“
Speaking of dinner, I haven’t had mine either. Care to discuss this ‘interesting conversation’ over a chicken salad sandwich?”
He held open the door for me. “You dining alone tonight?”
“Lindsey had a better offer. She and Amber plan to look at pictures of bridesmaids’ dresses.”
“CJ and Amber. Does it bother you knowing they’re planning a wedding?” he asked.
I shrugged. “I’m getting used to the notion. Most of the time, I think Pooh Bear and Sweetums deserve each other.”
McBride followed me up the stairs. “I have to admit Amber does seem more his type.”
Ouch! I swung around to face him and, being two steps above, found myself at eye level. My chin went up a notch. “Explain that remark, or I’ll rescind my invite.”
“You drive a hard bargain.” His cool blue eyes warmed with humor. “The CJ that I remember always gravitated to taller … more sophisticated … girls. Not the petite and feisty sort. You’re not who I pictured CJ would end up marrying.”
“Oh.” Unsure how to interpret his comment, I continued up the stairs, leaving McBride to follow.
Pleased at Casey’s energetic welcome, McBride stooped to pet the wriggling mass of canine. I didn’t have the heart to inform him that Casey greeted everyone with the same enthusiastic tail wagging.
“Make yourself comfortable while I fix the sandwiches,” I told him. “I’d offer you a beer, but you’re obviously on duty—besides, I don’t have any. I’m more of a wine drinker myself.”
“My guess would be Chardonnay.”
I took chicken salad and lettuce from the fridge. “Actually, I prefer my wine sweeter, less dry. Riesling or pinot grigio. And when I’m feeling wild and crazy, I drink merlot.”
While I worked, McBride wandered into the living room, where he stood looking out the window, his back turned. “You’ve got a bird’s-eye view of the town square from here.”
“Mmm,” I murmured. I heaped chicken salad on multi-grain bread, topped it with lettuce, thin slices of tomato, and red onion, then added a handful of kettle chips and a kosher dill pickle to our plates. “Iced tea or soda?” I asked. “Or if you’d rather, I can make coffee.”
