Kill 'Em with Cayenne

by Gail Oust

  I shook my head in disbelief. “Would you rather have people think you killed Becca?”

  “No, of course not, but I don’t want to become a laughingstock either. A woman has her pride, you know.”

  Reba Mae tucked her sunglasses into their case. “When McBride finds out you lied—and, trust me, the man’s smart as a whip—it won’t sit well.”

  I nodded agreement. “You’re going to look guilty as sin.”

  “How did the two of you figure out I wasn’t home alone?”

  “Buzz let it slip when he came to exterminate for spiders,” I explained.

  “Buzz?” Maybelle frowned. “How would he know how I spend my nights?”

  “He admitted that he drives by your place every night. Checks to make sure you’re all right. He worries about you.”

  “Ask me, his conscience is botherin’ him for jiltin’ you,” Reba Mae offered.

  “It’s that darn man’s fault I’m in this predicament.” Maybelle tore her wadded-up napkin into shreds. “If not for him, I wouldn’t have to get all dolled up and meet strange men.”

  I nudged Reba Mae with the toe of my sandal, a signal to keep it zipped. If this was Maybelle’s notion of being “dolled up,” no wonder she had trouble attracting the opposite sex. She was expecting a payback of tsunami proportions from a little lipstick and blush.

  “I signed up with a site called Mature Minglers.” Maybelle tucked a salt-and-pepper strand behind her ear.

  “How’s it goin’?” Reba Mae folded her arms on the table and leaned forward. “I’ve seen their ads and thought about joinin’ myself.”

  I looked at her in surprise. “That’s news to me. You never mentioned this before.”

  Reba Mae shrugged. “What’s to mention? My love life is nonexistent.”

  “Looks to me, it’s picked up some with Wally Porter in town.”

  “Hmph!” she snorted. “Wally will be leavin’ soon, and I’ll be right back to spendin’ Saturday nights watchin’ the Lifetime Movie Network on TV.”

  Maybelle perked up at hearing this. Reaching across the table, she squeezed Reba Mae’s hand. “Maybe we can get together some Saturday. Be nice to have company for a change.”

  “Sure thing.” Reba Mae squeezed back. “I’ll make us a nice big bowl of buttered popcorn.”

  It was nice to witness girl bonding in action, but the time had come to get down to brass tacks. “All right, Maybelle,” I said, using my stern, no-nonsense tone, “since you weren’t home alone the night Becca was killed, where were you?”

  “Right here.” She blinked back fresh tears. “And I was stood up that night, too.”

  “I don’t suppose you know the man’s name?” I asked.

  “No.” Maybelle shook her head sorrowfully. “He said his first name was Don. He never gave me a last name. Like a ninny, I waited around until the mall was ready to close hoping he’d show, but he never did. By that time, I was real upset and knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep. Instead of heading straight home, I took in a late movie.”

  Ignoring my philosophy that if you don’t want the answer don’t ask the question, I forged ahead. “Can you prove it?”

  Maybelle placed her hand on her purse. “Course I can. The ticket stub’s here in my wallet.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief. “Did you see anyone you know? Someone who can verify your whereabouts?”

  “Not that I recall.” Maybelle’s frown returned; then she brightened. “I remember stopping for gas before leaving Augusta. Didn’t want to drive all the way home on a half-empty tank. I put it on my credit card and kept the receipt.”

  “Well, that’s that.” Reba Mae jumped up and collected our trash. “Still time to check out shoes before the stores close.”

  “Hold your horses, Reba Mae,” I said, then turned to Maybelle. “First thing tomorrow, Maybelle, you need to see Chief McBride. Admit you lied about your alibi. Show him the receipts so he can see for himself you weren’t anywhere near Brandywine Creek at the time Becca was murdered.”

  “Whatever you think best, Piper,” Maybelle promised.

  “One thing I don’t understand,” I said, climbing to my feet. “Why didn’t you tell the chief the truth at the outset? Why lie?”

  “Foolish me.” Maybelle gave a self-deprecating smile. “I thought if I waited Chief McBride would find the real killer and the fact that I’m a failure at Internet dating would never come to light.”

  The three of us started the trek toward Dillard’s. “You positive you saved those receipts?” I asked Maybelle when Reba Mae paused to window-shop.

  Maybelle patted her imitation leather purse. “All safe and sound.”

  * * *

  Finding Becca’s body had taken the shine off jogging. However, the next morning it was time for me to get back into the saddle—make that sneakers. The day was still in its infancy, with heat and humidity waiting in the wings. During summers in Georgia, the best time for strenuous exercise is early in the day. Before the mercury climbed and energy plummeted. Ideally, afternoons were spent lounging in the shade with a good book and a cool drink.

  I donned gym shorts, sports bra, and a faded University of Georgia T-shirt with GO DAWGS scrawled across the front. If the barbecue festival brought in swarms of customers as I hoped, I had planned to reward my hard work with moisture-wicking running shorts and a snazzy racerback tank top. My dream shorts went by the wayside when I wrote a check to the exterminator. I still hadn’t given up on the racerback top.

  Casey, ready and waiting, thumped his tail on the floor, urging me to hurry.

  “Okay, buddy, let’s go,” I said, clipping on his leash. “Cadaver dog or not, no more dead bodies. Deal?”

  I started off at a brisk walk, breathing deeply and swinging my arms, to warm up my muscles. After five minutes of breathing and swinging, I picked up the pace. Casey trotted obediently alongside. Birds chorused from the thick foliage of trees and shrubs. I waved to a man on the porch of a brick colonial as he sipped coffee and read the morning paper. I called out a greeting to Wanda Needmore, CJ’s paralegal, who was deadheading petunias, and narrowly avoided being sprayed by water spouting from her neighbor’s irrigation system. The tangy, mouthwatering aroma of roasting meat wafted through the air. Dress rehearsal, I surmised, for the festival’s rapidly approaching judgment day.

  I elected a circuitous route, one that would bypass the town square with its reminder of Becca Dapkins planted among the azaleas. As I rounded the corner of the street behind my shop, I slowed to catch my breath.

  “Ready for some kibble?” I asked Casey. I interpreted his woof to mean “yes.”

  Together we angled through the vacant lot toward my rear door. Judging from the amount of debris that had accumulated since the last cleanup, I realized it was time for litter patrol. Maybe I should ask McBride to deputize me so I could write citations. The coffers of Brandywine Creek would soon overflow. They might even dedicate a park in my honor. Better yet, the Piper Prescott Recycling Center.

  Preoccupied with thoughts of discarded cans and bottles, I dug in the pocket of my gym shorts for my key. Then realized a key wouldn’t be necessary. The back door of Spice It Up! stood ajar. Even an amateur sleuth such as myself could distinguish scratch marks on a lock.

  When I gave the door a tentative shove, it swung open. To enter or not to enter? Or should I call the police and stay put? Undecided, I caught my lower lip between my teeth. I didn’t want to be like the girl in a horror movie who, dumb as a box of rocks, went down creaking steps into a darkened basement while the audience screamed a warning. Instead, I fumbled for my cell phone and dialed 911.

  Dorinda, the dispatcher, recognized my voice. “Don’t tell me you found another dead body.”

  “Not this time.” I managed a shaky laugh. “I think someone broke into my shop while I was jogging.”

  “Stay right where you are,” Dorinda instructed. “An officer’s on the way.”

  I gingerly lowered myself to the gro
und and rested my back against the warming brick. Casey hunkered down beside me. I dreaded another lecture from McBride. I could hear him already: Get a stronger lock, don’t play detective, leave police work to the police. Yada yada yada.

  To my immense relief—and equally immense disappointment—it wasn’t McBride who responded to my call but Sergeant Beau Tucker, one of CJ’s poker buddies.

  “Hey there, Piper.” Beau hitched his trousers higher on his paunchy stomach. “Dorinda said to hustle on over. That you had a break-in.”

  I rose and brushed dirt from the seat of my pants. “The back door was partially open. I debated whether to check things for myself, but decided to call you instead.”

  “Good thinkin’.” Unsnapping his holster, he drew out his service weapon. “No tellin’ if the perp is still on the premises.”

  I resisted the urge to pace while Beau entered my shop, his gun at the ready. Casey sat near the door, his little body tense, his dark eyes shiny as buttons. After what seemed an eternity, Beau returned, reholstered his pistol, and spoke into a radio clipped to his shoulder. “Place secure, Dorinda. Tell McBride no need for backup.”

  I felt foolish now that my nerves had settled. “Thanks for coming.”

  “No sense takin’ chances. Like I tell my wife, follow your gut.” He took a small black notebook and a pen from the pocket of his uniform shirt. “How much cash do you keep on hand?”

  “Not much. Fifty dollars usually.” I rubbed my arms to erase the sudden chill. “Why? Was I robbed?”

  Beau jotted this down. “Your cash register’s been pried open. Looks like the crook did a smash and grab. In and out. Speed and surprise. It’s all over in a jiffy. I want you to go inside, take a good look around. See if anythin’ missin’ beside the cash.”

  I did as he directed, but other than an empty cash drawer, nothing seemed to be disturbed. I offered up a silent prayer of gratitude that Lindsey had spent the night at a girlfriend’s. No telling what might have happened if Lindsey had woken up and confronted a robber. She could have been hurt or killed. If McBride’s theory that Becca had been the victim of a robbery gone awry proved true, Lindsey might have suffered the same fate. I broke out in a cold sweat. The very thought turned my knees to jelly.

  “I’ll send a man over to dust for prints.” Beau tucked the notebook back in his pocket. “In the meantime, I’d splurge on a new lock.”

  As soon as he left, I reached for my cell and called Gray’s Hardware. My trendy racerback jogging top would have to wait a bit longer.

  CHAPTER 21

  “HONEYBUN, YOU ALL right?” Reba Mae, accompanied by a dapper-looking Wally Porter, hurried into Spice It Up! “Jolene phoned, said you were robbed.”

  “Still a little shaken, but otherwise I’m fine.”

  News travels fast in small towns. Bad news even faster. In olden times, word traveled by tom-toms, Pony Express, telegraph, telephone. None of these would’ve been necessary if Jolene Tucker had been on the scene. Jolene’s the wife of Beau Tucker, part-time poker player, full-time cop. She’s Brandywine Creek’s version of Gossip Girl. Dottie Hemmings and Ned Feeney were nothing to sneeze at either when it came to spreading the news but couldn’t compete with Jolene.

  “Sure you’re okay?” Reba Mae’s pretty brown eyes mirrored her concern. “Wally and I were shocked at the news.”

  Wally bobbed his shaved head. “Anything we can do?”

  “No, but I appreciate the offer.” I made an expansive gesture to encompass the tidy shelves stocked with spices from the four corners of the earth. “As you can see, nothing else was disturbed.”

  “I hope you aren’t in the habit of keeping a lot of cash on hand,” Wally said.

  “No, I usually deposit the day’s receipts after closing. I only keep fifty dollars in small bills to make change the next day.”

  “That’s wise. Lots of people on drugs these days are looking to score fast bucks. That sort doesn’t worry if someone gets hurt in the bargain.”

  “First thing I’m goin’ to do when I get to the Klassy Kut is check the locks,” Reba Mae declared. “No tellin’ where the robber’s gonna strike next.”

  “You ladies might think about investing in a good security system,” Wally advised. “If you like, I can give you the names of some reputable companies.”

  Reba Mae squeezed his arm and beamed up at him. “Wally has connections.”

  “Thanks for the suggestion, but Ned Feeney is coming by later to install the finest lock Gray’s Hardware carries. For the time being, it’s the most I can afford.”

  “Locks are good but, in my estimation, not much of a deterrent for anyone serious about breaking and entering. A woman living alone can’t be too careful.”

  Wally’s words made me nervous. I ran my hands down the sides of my apron. “I’m not alone. Most times my daughter’s here. And my guard dog is ready to go into attack mode the instant I give the signal.”

  Wally’s muddy-gray gaze darted to the rear of the shop where Casey rested behind a baby gate. “Cute dog,” he commented. “Border terrier?”

  I glanced over my shoulder. Casey lazily opened one eye, then promptly went back to napping. “Mutt,” I admitted. “From a long, distinguished line of mutts. He shows great potential, however.”

  Reba Mae hooked her arm through Wally’s. “My first client of the day canceled—her mother-in-law fell and broke her hip. So I invited Wally over for breakfast this morning.”

  “Eggs Benedict.” Wally patted his trim midriff. “I’d have to join a gym if I stayed in town much longer.”

  The man was built solid as a fire hydrant, and, to me, it looked more muscle than fat. “Reba Mae’s a fantastic cook,” I concurred.

  Wally placed a manicured hand over Reba Mae’s. “I told her it’s a damn shame she didn’t enter the competition. She’d give the others a run for their money.”

  “Speaking of barbecue,” Reba Mae said, trying hard not to look too pleased at the compliment, “our next stop is the Chamber of Commerce. Wally needs a final count on the number of entrants. Maybelle promised she’d have the information for him this morning.”

  “Have a good one.” I waved them off with a smile.

  No sooner had the door closed behind them when Tex Mahoney sauntered in looking larger than life in cowboy boots, Stetson, and faded jeans with a silver and turquoise belt buckle the size of a small platter.

  “Mornin’, ma’am.” He tipped his hat. “Heard tell you had your share of excitement this early in the day. Sorry to hear about the break-in. Glad to see you’re all right.”

  I went behind the counter and switched on the computer. “The thief got away with fifty dollars in petty cash. In return, I get a new lock for my door.”

  He tugged his ear. “Coulda been worse. Even so, it makes a body feel vulnerable.”

  “It certainly does.” Vulnerable. Tex’s comment nailed the sentiment I was experiencing. With an effort, I shook off the feeling and concentrated on business. “Is there something special I can help you with?”

  “I’m on the prowl for somethin’ that imparts a unique flavor to my sauce. Subtle but not overpowerin’. I thought I’d add a smidgen of anise and see what happens.”

  “Anise is an interesting choice.” Tex followed me as I left the counter and headed for the Hoosier cabinet where I kept the majority of my baking spices. “Anise should impart a sweet, licorice-like taste, warm and fruity. Most of my customers use it when baking cookies or cake, but in the Mediterranean it’s in demand to flavor aperitifs and liqueurs such as ouzo and anisette.”

  Tex grinned. “I’ll keep that in mind should I get a hankerin’ for one or the other.”

  I picked up a jar containing the small, oval seeds. “Would you like the anise whole or ground?”

  “Ground if you would, ma’am.”

  I brought out the coffee mill I used exclusively for grinding spice. “While I’m doing this, take a look around. You might find other spices you’d like to experime
nt with as well.”

  He prowled the aisles, picking up and setting down, before finally settling on a half-ounce container of cardamom pods. “Not every day one can find spice this fresh,” he commented. “I’ll be sure to recommend this place to friends who might be travelin’ through this part of the country.”

  “Please do.” I smiled at the prospect as I placed his purchases in a bag and added one of my business cards for good measure. “I also accept mail-order requests.”

  “Service with a smile.” He handed me his Visa. “You’d make a good Texan, little lady.”

  Little lady? It was impossible to take offense when the words slipped out so naturally. I ran his card through my machine and waited until it printed a receipt. “Did you know cumin and anise are in the same family? Caraway too.”

  “You don’t say.” He gave his earlobe another tug, then let out a long sigh. “I need to make a confession. My conscience’s been botherin’ me somethin’ fierce. Wish I woulda kept my big mouth shut, but that’s not my strong suit.”

  I’m no shrink—not a bartender or hairdresser either—but the man seemed to be in a quandary and needed to unburden himself. “If you want to talk about what’s troubling you…”

  He scuffed the floor with the toe of a well-worn boot. “Truth of the matter, I’m ashamed of myself for tattlin’ to Chief McBride about a conversation I overheard between the woman who was killed and that nice Miss Maybelle. The lady doesn’t strike me a cold-blooded killer. I know she’s a friend of yours. S’pose she’d forgive me once I apologized?”

  Tipping my head to one side, I eyed the man as I mulled over my response. Maybelle wasn’t much for sharing recipes, and except for Becca Dapkins, I’ve never known her to harbor a grudge. “Only thing you can do is ask,” I said slowly. “This time of day, Maybelle can usually be found at the Chamber.”

  “Maybe I’ll mosey over, see for myself. Thanks for your help, Miss Piper.” He touched fingertips to the brim of his Stetson. As I watched him stroll off, I couldn’t help but think that perhaps Maybelle wasn’t the failure with men she believed herself to be.